Against the Clock
by Swanseajill
Summary: When Sam goes missing during the investigation of a series of murders, Dean battles illness and the clock to solve the case before Sam’s time runs out. Casefic, Sick!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Against the Clock  
**Author:** Swanseajill  
**Rating: **Gen, PG-13  
**Characters:** Sam, Dean  
**Pairing**: None  
**Spoilers:** Set in Season One, between Faith and Shadow  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own them, making no money from them.

**Summary:** When Sam goes missing during the investigation of a series of murders, Dean battles illness and the clock to solve the case before Sam's time runs out.

**Author's Notes:** This is a straightforward casefic with some sick!Dean and hurt!Dean thrown in for good measure. It's set in Season One because I'm a little worn out with all the current angst of deals and hell and stuff. It was written for Sylia91 who was kind enough to bid on me as an author in an auction last year - and win! Sylia, I'm sorry it took so long to write and I hope it was worth the wait.

Grateful thanks as always to stealthyone for her fantastic beta job and for encouraging me to see this fic through to the bitter end.

The story is in thirteen parts and I'll post a part every day, or every other day.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The sonorous roar of the Impala's engine was familiar and somehow comforting. Sam stretched out as far as he could and allowed it to lull him further into a state of pleasant drowsiness already kicked off by the satisfying if cholesterol-building breakfast special, courtesy of Rosie's diner.

It was a long drive from north Colorado to their destination of Longville, Texas. Their latest hunt had involved several sleepless nights staking out a chupacabra's lair, and he intended to catch up on some sleep until it was his turn to drive.

The high-pitched bleep of an incoming text message tore him unceremoniously from the edge of oblivion. He grunted in annoyance, straightened and glanced across at Dean. His brother was struggling to pull his cell from his pocket while steering around a tight bend. The cell slipped from his fingers and fell somewhere between his feet.

Dean growled a profanity and looked at Sam.

Sam looked back and raised an eyebrow. "Want me to pick that up for you, Dean?" he asked sarcastically.

Dean smirked. "Aw, Sammy, I know you never pass on the chance to grovel at my feet."

Sam flicked his brother the finger and contorted his body into a shape it wasn't meant for as he fished under the seat for the cell.

He found it and held it out to Dean.

"You'd better check it," Dean said, steering around another hairpin. "Unless you'd like an early swim."

Sam glanced gingerly over the edge of the road at the gorge far below.

"I'll pass." He flipped the cell open and checked the caller ID.

And stared in shock at the name on the display.

Dean flicked him a glance. "Who's it from?"

"Unbelievable." Sam shook his head, still staring incredulously at the four digits displayed on the screen.

"Sam!" Dean snapped.

"It's from Dad," Sam said flatly. "It's coordinates."

He was reeling, flooded with mixed emotions. There had been no word from Dad for over a month, not even in response to his desperate message that Dean was dying from a damaged heart. He'd found it hard to believe that even Dad would be callous enough to not once check in to see if Dean was okay, and a nagging fear had taken root in the back of his mind. What if Dad hadn't made contact because he couldn't, because something had happened to him? He was sure Dean harbored the same fear, though they'd never once discussed it.

As he stared blankly at the phone, he felt anger welling. He might have guessed. Dad was doing what Dad did best -- keeping his own agenda, setting his own priorities, keeping them out of the loop. Had he even wondered how Dean might feel about his silence? Had it occurred to him how Dean might feel about being so low down the priority list that he didn't even warrant a phone call? Probably not. Dad never had been too intuitive – at least, not as far as his family was concerned.

Now, he actually had the nerve to text them coordinates.

Sam looked at Dean. His brother's eyes were firmly fixed on the road, but his jaw was locked, and a nerve ticked in his cheek. "From Dad?" he asked tersely. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Who else sends us coordinates with no message?" He scowled. "He's a piece of work."

"Come on Sam, what's wrong with that? You know--"

"_What's wrong with it?" _Sam snapped. Dean could be so dense. "What do you think, Dean? No word for more than a month, then he has the nerve to send us coordinates. He can't even bother to pick up the phone, not even after…"

Dean glanced across at him, expression unreadable. "After what?"

"You know what," Sam ground out. "You almost died a month ago, and he hasn't even called. Not then, not now. No message, no text, nothing. Then out of the blue, he sends you coordinates for a job. Doesn't that bother you?"

Dean abruptly slammed on the brakes and steered the Impala to a halt at the side of the road. He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence was startling. After a moment's silence he said, "He must have had a good reason. He'd have called if he could."

Sam snorted. "Not good enough. You're his son, Dean, and you were _dying_!"

"Thanks for the reminder," Dean shot back.

Sam was beginning to regain his ability to read his brother, and although the angry words were directed at him, he could detect the confused emotions that lay beneath.

He spoke more softly this time. "I just think… what he's doing… the way he's keeping us in the dark - it isn't right."

"Sam, just shut the hell up, okay?" Dean snapped. "Dad knows what he's doing. He's sent us coordinates, which means a job, so we're gonna check it out. End of conversation." He held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

Sam bit back a scathing retort and slammed the cell into Dean's hand. They'd had this argument too many times before. The last one had resulted in him literally walking away, and Dean had almost died as a result. He didn't plan to make that mistake again. Sure, Dean's blind faith in and obedience to their father were frustrating as hell, but it wasn't his fault Dad was a jerk.

They sat in silence while Dean stared at the text message, who knew what thoughts going through his head. After a while, Sam sighed in acceptance of the inevitable and reached for his laptop on the back seat. "Give me the coordinates. I'll check them out."

Silently, Dean handed over his cell. Sam powered up the laptop and plugged the numbers into the computer. A few minutes later, he looked up. "Springwood."

"Springwood? Awesome!"

"I don't think Dad wants us to hunt Freddy Krueger, Dean," Sam said dryly.

A slight smiled touched Dean's lips. "I don't know, it might be fun."

Sam was relieved that Dean was making an effort to break the tension. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but this Springwood's in Colorado, not Ohio."

Dean frowned. "Springwood, Colorado. Sounds kinda familiar."

He reached over the seat and rummaged around in the back until he came up with Dad's journal. He flicked through the pages for a few moments, then slammed his palm triumphantly down on one. "That's it. Series of unexplained murders – all took place on the same day every year for the past four years."

"And Dad thought it was our kind of gig?"

"Why else would it be in his journal?" Dean handed Sam the journal and started the car. "Let's hit the road. Springwood's south of here -- can't be more than a four-hour drive. You can read all about it on the way."

Sam refrained from commenting on the obvious -- that they should weigh up the relative merits of this case versus the haunting in Texas. It would just cause further argument, and Dean would do whatever he wanted anyway.

Fighting back feelings of resentment against both his brother and father, he began to read carefully through the journal entry as Dean started the engine and steered the Impala back onto the road.

He read the entry through twice, struggling as usual to read Dad's untidy handwriting and the scrawled comments in the margins of the page.

"Okay," he said finally. "You were right; Dad was investigating a series of murders. The victims were all killed on the same day every year, for the past four years, with the same M.O. – a bullet to the heart. Dad got there just after the murder last year. Police theory was a serial killer, but they didn't have many leads – just a mystery man seen talking to the first victim a few hours before her death, but they never found him. Dad was convinced the cause was supernatural, but he didn't have time to figure it out because he had to leave in a hurry to, quote, 'pursue other leads.'" He paused at that. "Think he was on the trail of the thing that killed Mom?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. Either way, it must have been important. Dad wouldn't just walk out on a hunt without good reason."

Sam nodded. That much was true enough. "Anyway, he planned to come back before the date this year." He paused. "Guess he has something more important to do."

He couldn't hide the sarcasm and Dean glanced at him sharply. "He sent us, didn't he?" He held Sam's eyes until Sam shrugged acknowledgement. "What date are we talking about?"

"June 4. That's tomorrow. Cutting it a bit close."

Dean grinned. "Nothing like a deadline to concentrate the mind." He put his foot down, and the Impala responded with a roar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Four hours later they were coasting slowly down the main street of Springwood, Colorado, a small town at the foot of the San Juan mountains boasting a population, according to the welcome sign, of 7,578.

It seemed a pleasant enough little place, its wide main street lined with majestic maples and a predictable array of coffee shops, outdoor stores and gift shops, evidence to back Springwood's claim to be the entrance to the great Colorado wilderness experience.

Dean edged the Impala into a parking space and killed the engine.

"So," Sam said, "where do you want to start?"

"How about we find out something about our victims. You got the addresses for the next of kin?"

Sam glanced down at the laptop balanced on his knee. "Yeah. All except Vic Anderson. He was from out of town."

"Well, at least that gives us a way in." Dean fished around in the glove compartment and came up brandishing two IDs. "Brett Wilde and Danny Sinclair, private investigators hired by his family to look into Vic's death." He handed one to Sam. "Let's roll, Brett."

………………………….

"Don Powell found her in the quarry the next morning, while he was walking his dog."

Sam observed the man sitting in the large armchair across the room. Randall Miller, husband of the first victim Karen, was tall and unhealthily thin. He wore brown linen pants, a primrose yellow shirt buttoned up to the collar, and a neat brown and yellow striped tie. His narrow frame, sharp features and receding hairline gave him a birdlike appearance, and he seemed older than his thirty-odd years.

He clearly found it difficult to talk about his wife, even now, four years after her death. Speaking her name seemed like torture for him, and whenever it was mentioned, his hand would stray unconsciously to his chest, rubbing circles in a kind of caress.

Sam felt for him, regretting the necessity of intruding on grief that was still so evident. He wondered if he would still feel Jess' death as keenly after four years had passed.

Dean had taken the lead while Sam sat back and observed Miller as he answered questions about Karen's movements on the day of the murder and any possible links she might have with the other victims.

He shot Dean a glance as his brother raised a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose for the fifth time in as many minutes, noting the frown lines between his eyes and the pained expression that shot briefly across his features.

Miller rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I should never have left her. If I hadn't gone to that sales conference…"

Sam dragged his attention back to Miller. "You can't blame yourself," he said gently. "It wasn't your fault." He paused for Dean to ask his next question, but Dean inclined his head in Sam's direction and shifted in his seat. Sam addressed Miller. "So, the police have no leads at all?"

Miller shook his head. "They suspected me at first." His features contorted in a grimace of distress. "As if I could have hurt her. She was my life. But I had a solid alibi at the conference in Chicago, so they didn't detain me for long." He paused, rubbing the side of his neck, obviously uncomfortable talking about his wife. "Anyway, a few people mentioned seeing Karen with a stranger a few hours before she died – it looked like she was giving him directions or something. That was their best lead, but they never found him."

"Did they give you a description?"

"Tall, dark-haired guy in his mid-twenties wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. His jaw clenched. "It was him, I know it."

He looked down, his hand absently rubbing his chest again.

Dean leaned toward Miller. "Do you have any concrete reason for thinking that, Mr. Miller?"

Miller shook his head. "Not really, I just… I just feel it."

Dean glanced at Sam. "Mr. Miller, I know this is difficult, and we're almost done here, but could you tell us if Karen mentioned anything unusual happening in the few days before her death?"

"Like what?"

Dean shrugged. "Oh, I don't know – did she have any unusual nightmares? Hear any strange noises? That sort of thing."

Miller looked puzzled. "No, nothing like that."

"We just like to cover all bases," Sam interjected quickly, then cleared his throat. "Well, I think we have all we need," he went on, glancing at Dean for confirmation.

Dean nodded.

"We're very sorry for your loss, Mr. Miller," Sam said sincerely. "And we're sorry to intrude at such a difficult time."

Miller nodded. "Every year I think it should get better, but it never does. It never does. Still, I can feel her with me, even now, and it's a comfort." He picked up a photo from the coffee table – he and his wife on their wedding day – and stared at it intently, rocking slightly in his seat.

Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded. This was their cue to leave. They muttered awkward goodbyes, but Miller seemed to have forgotten their presence.

Back in the car, Sam consulted the list of victims. "Next victim was Del Mason. No next of kin in town, but I know where he worked. He was a mechanic for a local car dealer, Larry Melville."

"Where to?" Dean asked.

"Corner of 4th and Acacia." Sam studied the town map. "Head east down Main, take the first left, then the third right." When Dean didn't start the engine immediately, he glanced across. Dean was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed.

Sam studied his brother, noting the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he unconsciously lifted a hand to his head. "Dean? You okay?"

Dean cleared his throat and grimaced. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Headache?"

"It'll pass."

"You want to take a break?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. It's just a headache. I'm fine."

He started the engine and pulled out.

…………………………..

Del Mason's former employer, Larry Melville, had car salesman written all over him, and in Sam's view, that wasn't a compliment. His larger than life persona dripped affability accompanied by a seemingly inexhaustible sales patter. He wore cream chinos that did nothing to disguise the extra twenty pounds he was carrying, and a white shirt with several buttons undone showcased a collection of gold chains around his neck.

Despite showing their IDs on arrival, it was a full five minutes before either of them could get a word in to explain that they weren't there to trade in the Impala and to clarify the real purpose of their visit. Melville's faced dropped comically, but he rallied quickly.

"Del was a great guy, a great guy. Best mechanic I've ever worked with. Tragic loss, totally tragic."

"And you can't think of anyone who may have had a grudge against him?" Dean asked.

Melville vehemently shook his head. "Everyone loved Del. He was a war hero, fought in Afghanistan. Discharged because his knee was shattered in a bombing. Took him awhile to adjust to civilian life again, but he was getting there." He shook his head. "Tragic. Totally tragic."

Sam took the lead this time, but more questioning elicited no useful information.

When they were ready to go, taking their leave proved difficult.

"So," Melville boomed, and clapped Dean on the shoulder with a meaty hand. "You're sure you don't want to sell this beauty? I'll give you the best deal you're likely to see anywhere in the country."

Dean stiffened. "Thanks, but like I told you, she's not for sale." He hastily extricated himself from Melville's grip and, to Sam's amusement, maneuvered protectively between the Impala and the covetous salesman.

Melville extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Dean. "Well, if you change your mind, make sure you give me a call first, you hear? I'll give you the best deal you'll see—"

"Anywhere in the country. I got it," Dean said, backing away and eyeing the card, lips curled in disgust.

Sam held out a hand. "Good to meet you, Mr. Melville. If we find out anything about Del's murder, we'll be in touch."

Dean blew out a long breath as soon as they were in the car and out of sight of the overzealous dealer. "Man, did you see the way he was looking at her? I wouldn't put it past him to try and steal her."

Sam snorted. "If you're worried, maybe you should sleep with her tonight, just in case."

"You think?" Dean looked like he was seriously considering this as an option.

"No, I don't," Sam said, exasperated. "You're being paranoid."

Dean shrugged, then grimaced, shifting in his seat.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Will you stop asking me that?"

"Fine," Sam echoed, irritated at Dean's unnecessarily stoic attitude. "You want a break, get something to eat before we hit the last place?"

"No, let's get it done."

The last place was a free medical clinic run by one Art Jackson, M.D. After an hour's wait until the final patient had left, a grey-haired receptionist showed them into the doctor's office. A genial man in his sixties, Jackson was the grandfather of Scott Griffin, the second victim.

Sam warmed to the doctor immediately. He possessed a dry sense of humor, and behind his small, round spectacles, his eyes were sharp and inquisitive, giving Sam the feeling that very little got past him.

"The FBI investigated these cases exhaustively last year and came up with nothing," he said finally, after answering what had now become their standard questions. He looked at Dean sharply. "What makes you think you'll do any better, Mr. ...?"

Dean smiled pleasantly. "Sinclair. Well, often a fresh pair of eyes can pick up something new, and at the end of the day, we've been paid to do a job."

"Well, I'm afraid there's nothing more I can tell you."

The door opened, and a girl's head appeared. "Hi, Grandpa. I--" She stopped when she spotted Sam and Dean. "I'm sorry. Margaret said you'd finished seeing patients."

"Come in, Rachel," the doctor said with a fond smile." He nodded at his guests. "These gentlemen aren't patients. They're private investigators looking into the murders."

"Really?" Rachel came into the room, eyeing Sam and Dean speculatively. She looked to be in her early twenties, slender body tucked into tight jeans and a T-shirt that left little to the imagination. Her dark brown hair was cut in a short bob, and although her face was too thin for real beauty, it had character and a look of her grandfather in the bright, intelligent eyes.

Dean shot her the patented Dean Winchester smile, guaranteed to have women swooning from East Coast to West. "Nice to meet you. Danny Sinclair." He nodded at Sam. "This is my partner, Brett Wilde."

Sam bit back a grin as Rachel rolled her eyes rather than swooning at Dean's feet, and addressed herself to Sam. "So, who are you working for?"

"Vic Anderson's parents," Sam said.

She nodded. "They've been making a real nuisance of themselves with the FBI, calling every week or so to see if there's any progress."

"And you know that, how?" Dean asked.

"I'm a reporter for the local paper. They keep calling me too, in case I've found out something they should know." Her eyes narrowed. "They called last week; didn't mention that they'd hired private investigators, though."

"Well, maybe it slipped their minds," Dean said quickly. He cleared his throat. "So, Doctor Jackson, just one more question. We were wondering if Scott had mentioned anything unusual happening before he died."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Had he seen anything… strange," Sam explained, "like a vision, or the feeling of someone watching him – or something odd happening in his house? That kind of thing,"

"That's exactly what the other guy asked." Jackson said.

"The other guy?" Dean asked, with a quick glance at Sam.

"Last year. Remember, Rachel? It was a couple of days after the murder. He came round asking questions. He said he was an insurance investigator. He was asking about strange occurrences, too."

"I remember him," Rachel said. "There was something fishy about him, and the questions he asked."

Sam didn't like the speculative look she was giving them, and clearly Dean noticed too, because he said, "Well, I can't speak for him, but ours are just routine questions."

"They don't sound routine to me," Rachel said.

"It doesn't matter," Jackson said pleasantly, shooting a warning look at Rachel, "because the answer's 'no,' to all of them. I don't know what else to tell you."

Sam nodded at Dean and stood up. "Well, in that case, we'd better be going. We've taken enough of your time."

"Look," Rachel said. "I can help. I've been doing some work on the cases, and I've compiled a lot of information—"

"Thanks," Dean said quickly, "but we prefer to do our own research."

Rachel bristled. "I'm just trying to help."

"And we appreciate it, really," Sam said, smiling, and shot a warning look at Dean. "It's just that we like to build up our notes from scratch, rather than use someone else's work. We'll be sure to give you a call if we need any more information, though. Do you have a card?"

Rachel looked unimpressed, but handed a card over anyway. "Your loss. I could save you a lot of work."

"Thanks, we'll hear that in mind." Sam took the card and turned to Doctor Jackson. "Thank you for your time."

Dean was on his feet now, pale and a little unsteady. Sam raised an eyebrow at him but Dean ignored the unspoken question, steadied himself against the chair, and nodded to Jackson and his granddaughter. "We'll be in touch."

Jackson studied Dean closely, a slight frown on his face, and opened his mouth to say something. Sure that the doctor was about to ask Dean if he was feeling all right, which would only antagonize Dean, Sam said, "Thanks again, you've been a great help," and steered Dean quickly out of the room.

He was sure now that his brother was sickening for something and wondering how long it would be before Dean would admit it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

It was close to ten p.m. when they drove west along Main and began to pass the predictable string of motels. Reluctantly pushing aside a mental image of a comfortable bed and a steaming-hot power shower, Dean cruised past the usual suspects and chose a small motel called Wild Water Lodge just beyond the town limit. Its crooked sign boasting "Rock bottom prices" in faded blue paint held the promise of the usual faded carpets and questionable cleanliness.

Dean stopped outside the reception office and let Sam out to check them in. He turned off the engine and rested his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment, wondering where he was going to find the strength to get out of the car, never mind walk to the motel room. He'd been trying to hide it from Sam all afternoon, but honestly, he felt like crap.

It had started just after breakfast with the beginnings of a dull headache. As the day progressed so had the pain in his head, and by mid-afternoon, his back had begun to ache. Now, his head was thumping, the back pain seemed to have spread to every muscle in his body and his throat felt raw. On top of that he felt nauseous, dizzy and bone-weary. Yeah. 'Crap' pretty much covered it.

The passenger door creaked open and Sam got back in the car. "Room 26, far end of the lot."

Dean started the engine and drove across to the room. With an effort, he followed Sam out of the car, hefted his bag out of the trunk and walked the few yards to the door of Room 26.

Sam snapped on the light, and Dean reeled as the sudden brightness burned aching eyes and set the geometric pattern of the carpet whirling. The room began to spin. He swayed a little and sat down quickly on the nearest bed.

Sam took a step toward him, a frown creasing his forehead. "You okay?"

Dean forced a grin. "Dude, we need to salt and burn that carpet," he said lightly to cover up the moment of weakness.

Sam studied him closely for a moment, clearly not buying the deflection, then let it go. "I'm not sure it's possessed," he said, "but it's definitely a health hazard."

Dean looked dejectedly around the shabby room. It was decidedly seventies in décor, the geometric pattern complimented by faded plum-colored wallpaper. "Want to bet on how many cockroaches there are in the bathroom?"

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Not really." He jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. "Why don't you take first shower and find out?"

That may have been one of the best ideas Sam had ever had.

After a cursory search for insect life, Dean turned the shower on, cranked the temperature up high, and stood under the steaming flow. The heat felt good on aching muscles, but did little to relieve the escalating pounding in his head.

Finally, mindful of the need to leave Sam at least a trickle of hot water, he dressed and left the bathroom. Sam had put on one of the bedside lamps, so Dean casually switched off the overhead light. The subdued lighting was a relief, and the carpet settled down into a less trip-inducing pattern.

Sam was sitting on his bed, rummaging in his bag, and Dean eased down on his own mattress.

"No cockroaches," he remarked, "But there's something I don't want to identify growing in the sink." He lay down carefully, lacing his hands behind his head. "So, what do you think?"

"About the case?"

"No, about the décor."

Sam blew out a breath. "I don't know, Dean. Nothing we've heard today makes me think there's a supernatural cause to all this."

"Maybe. But nothing we've seen discounts it, either."

"I just don't think this is our kind of case."

"Dad thought it was."

Sam gave Dean a pointed look. "He said he had a feeling it was. That doesn't mean he was right."

"Doesn't mean he was wrong, either. Dad's gut feelings are usually right."

"Dean," Sam said earnestly, "there's nothing pointing to a supernatural cause. These people were shot. How many spirits have you come across that shoot their victims? The serial-killer theory sounds much more likely to me."

Dean scoffed. "Same time, same date every year? That doesn't sound like your average serial killer to me."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So now you're an expert on serial killers?"

Dean swallowed his irritation at Sam's sarcasm. "I've read enough to know that it's an unusual pattern, yes."

Sam sighed in that annoying way he had, as if he was simply humoring his brother. "So what do you want to do? Because seriously, I think we're at a dead end. There's no lead, nowhere to start."

Dean sat up, ignored the way the room lurched unpleasantly, and frowned at his brother. "We've barely started yet, and you want to just give up and move on?"

Sam looked away. "Maybe."

Dean's patience snapped. "You know what, Sam? Your attitude? It's pissing me off."

"Why?" Sam shot back. "Because I dare to question Dad?"

Dean ran a hand over his aching eyes. He didn't need this. Not now, not when he was feeling crappy and they had a case to solve in only twenty-four hours. "You know what I think, Sam? I don't think you care about solving this case and saving someone's life. I think all you care about is proving Dad wrong."

Sam stood up. "That's bullshit, Dean."

"Is it?"

Dean's challenging words hung in the air. Sam glowered, and his chin jutted out defiantly, but instead of retorting, he said tightly, "There's a take-out pizza place across the street. I'll go and get us something to eat."

He pulled on his jacket and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Dean winced, the loud noise intensifying the hammering in his skull, and the very thought of pizza making his stomach roil.

He turned out the lamp and laid back, glad of the darkness that eased the throbbing behind his eyes.

He was already regretting his harsh words, uttered out of frustration and fatigue. Sam did care about saving people and Dean knew his barb had hit home.

Damn Sam and his stubborn insistence on questioning Dad at every turn.

Dean had to admit, if only to himself, that the unexpected text had rocked him too. For the past month an unthinkable idea had been lurking at the back of his mind, firmly pushed back every time it tried to claw its way to the surface. What if Dad hadn't answered Sam's text because he couldn't? What if he was lying hurt somewhere, or even worse?

Now that he knew the truth, he wasn't sure how to deal with it. When he'd believed he only had a few weeks to live, all through those long and frightening days of weakness when it took all his energy just to get out of bed, when he'd discovered what it felt like to be an invalid, all he'd wanted was to see his dad. He'd been a little ashamed of his weakness, but that hadn't stopped him dreaming of Dad knocking on the motel door one day to tell him that he'd found some magical cure, that everything was going to be all right.

But Dad hadn't come, and it was Sam who'd saved him, even if the cost had been too high. Dad's deliberate choice to stay away hurt. He tried to push the resentful feeling away, but he was tired, his defenses were low and it stubbornly resisted all efforts to remove it.

He was angry at the betrayal of his father that these thoughts signified. Dad loved him; he _knew_ that. So as he'd told Sam, there must be some compelling reason why he'd chosen not to get in touch. He had to hold on to that because to think otherwise would bring his whole world crashing down.

After a while, he fell into a fitful doze, only to be jerked awake when the door opened. Sam came in, balancing a huge pizza box and two large, steaming cups. He put them down on the table between the beds and switched on a lamp.

Dean grimaced as the bright light hit his sensitive eyes and dragged his aching body up, squinting at his watch. Eleven p.m. "Where'd you go for the pizza? Alaska?"

"There was a line," Sam said, a hint of tension in his voice.

He shrugged out of his jacket and sat down on the edge of his bed, then lifted the lid of the cardboard box. The aroma of cheese and pepperoni filled the room. Dean's stomach lurched.

Sam picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite. Dean reached for the cup. Even the usually enticing aroma of coffee made him feel slightly nauseous, but he needed the caffeine.

Sam chewed and swallowed, the tension seeming to drain out of him as he ate. "Pizza's good," he said, after another few bites. "Better take your share before I finish it all."

"Try it and die, bitch," Dean said automatically, but he still didn't reach for a piece.

Sam eyed him. "What's wrong with you?"

"We haven't eaten since noon. You have to be hungry. Are you sick?"

"No." Dean sipped scalding coffee, trying not to wince as he swallowed and the razor blades in his throat leapt to attention. After a moment, he said, "Look, I'm sorry, okay. I was out of order."

"I don't want to talk about it," Sam said quietly. "Either way, you were right that someone's life is on the line. So let's just take a good look at what we have so far and work out what to do next."

Dean studied Sam, searching for a clue as to his thoughts, but Sam's expression was neutral. After a pause, he said, "Yeah, okay." Pretty much the last thing he wanted to do was force his aching brain into coherent thought, but there was no choice, not with the timescale they were working with. He scrubbed a hand wearily over his face.

Sam gave him a searching look. "Look, it's late, and it's been a long day," Sam said. "Maybe we should take a rain check, get some sleep, work on this in the morning."

Dean shook his head. "We don't have much time, Sam. What did the records have down for time of death?"

Sam gave him another penetrating stare, then reached for his notes. "Nothing precise," he said after a moment's study, "but they all happened sometime between nine p.m and three a.m."

"Working on nine gives us less than twenty-four hours to solve the case," Dean said.

Sam hesitated, seemed about to say something, then nodded. "All right. Here's what we have." He began ticking facts off on his fingers. "Four victims. All in their mid-twenties, the first female, the other three male. They all died from bullet wounds to the heart at roughly the same time on the same date, and all their bodies were found in an old quarry in the woods just outside town, although police reports say none of them was actually killed there." He paused. "So I guess the first question is, why those particular victims?"

"They're all around the same age, but that seems to be the only thing they have in common – apart from being dead," Dean said. "There's no obvious connection between them, other than that Vic Anderson bought a used car from the garage where Del Mason worked."

"Pretty weak."

"Yeah."

"Random victims, then?" Sam suggested.

"Maybe."

"Let's suppose this is our kind of gig. Could it have been a monster of some kind? Wendigo? Werewolf?"

Dean grunted. "I don't know of any monsters that shoot their victims. And the fact that they were all killed on the same date? That doesn't add up." He ran through other possible explanations in his head. "Could be a vengeful spirit," he suggested finally.

Sam shot him a skeptical look. "So what, it's choosing random victims that happen to stray into the wrong place?"

"Maybe."

"I've never heard of a spirit killing and then moving the victim's body," Sam said.

He was right.

There was silence as both brothers chewed over the facts.

Dean was frustrated. He couldn't think straight. His head hurt too much, and it felt too heavy on his shoulders. He rested his elbows on his knees, head held between his hands, and bit back a groan.

"We're missing something," he said eventually. "There has to be a trigger, an event that started all this off. We need to take a step back and look at that."

"Okay, we'll do that, but in the morning." Sam frowned. "You don't look too good, Dean. You need to get some sleep. You're sick, aren't you?"

This time, Dean didn't bother to deny it.

"This isn't just a headache, is it?"

Sam was nothing if not persistent.

"Dean?" Sam pressed when Dean still didn't answer.

Dean sighed. "I feel like crap, okay?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Want to fill in a few details?"

Dean grunted. "Something's trying to drill its way through my head, I'm an inch from throwing up, there are razor blades stuck in my throat and my whole body aches. What's your diagnosis, Doctor Kildare?"

"Sounds like you're coming down with something," Sam said. Master of the obvious, that Sammy. "Have you taken anything?"

"Some Tylenol this afternoon."

He watched tiredly as Sam fished around in his duffel, coming up eventually with two round white pills that he popped into Dean's hand.

"Take these."

Dean looked at the pills suspiciously. They were larger than the pills he'd taken earlier. "What are they?"

"Just Tylenol, but the prescription stuff. Stronger than the ones you've been taking. They'll help you sleep."

Dean hesitated. He hated painkillers. They slowed him down and that could be fatal. Still, he had Sam to watch his back and he needed some sleep if he was to be on his game in the morning. He popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down with some water. Then he shrugged out of his jeans, lay down with a sigh of relief, and pulled the comforter around him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Sam watched Dean surreptitiously until he was sure his brother was asleep. Not that he was overly worried. Dean probably just had a touch of the flu. It was just that ever since Nebraska, he'd been hyper alert to any sign that might signal that Dean was sick. It was stupid and irrational, but he couldn't help it. He still had nightmares about Dean in that hospital bed, so ill and weak, joking about daytime TV. He never wanted to see his brother like that again. Ever.

He pushed away the unhappy memories, took a quick shower, then settled at the small desk and powered up his laptop. He was tired, but still wound tight from the tension the text message had spawned and that still lurked beneath the surface, ready to strike again at the smallest provocation.

He searched for information on the murders and read every article he could find, but nothing gave him much more information than they already had. He made a mental note to suggest a visit to the local library the following morning to check the news stories more thoroughly.

One article did rouse his curiosity. In an editorial for a publication called _Colorado Enquirer: The Naked Truth_, the author claimed that the FBI had covered up certain details about the murders. There was no hint as to the nature of the details. He made a note to follow it up, although judging from some of the other articles in the same edition - including one that contained veiled hints that the state governor might be an alien in disguise - the author was clearly a raving conspiracy theorist with nothing concrete to back up his claims.

He yawned and checked his watch. One a.m. He stretched his back, wincing when a bone cracked loudly in his neck. Time to turn in and get some sleep.

Before shutting the laptop down it occurred to him to take a quick look at the current local newspaper headlines. It was likely there'd be a mention of the previous murders. He pulled up the site for the San Juan County newspaper and found the killings were indeed front-page material, but the article contained nothing but speculation about a serial killer on the loose and a warning for citizens to be vigilant.

He glanced at other news, and another headline captured his attention: "Recent outbreak of flu-like virus claims four lives in Gunnison County." He opened the article with a vague sense of unease.

"The flu-like virus, which originated in the northern part of the state, has moved southwards, yesterday claiming four lives in Gunnison County, all elderly residents of a nursing home in the small town of Windsor.

"A spokesperson for the board of health said today, 'This virus is particularly virulent. Symptoms develop quickly and include some or all of the following: severe headache, nausea, sore throat, muscular pain, dizziness and a high fever.' He went on to urge citizens not to panic. 'The virus is contagious but so far is spreading slowly and is not life threatening for most people. If you develop symptoms, the best advice is to drink plenty of water and get total bed rest for two to three days. However, the elderly and anyone with a weakened immune system could be in danger of suffering complications. If you fall into this category, contact your doctor immediately should you become aware of any of the above symptoms.'"

The chupacabra hunt had been in Gunnison County.

Sam looked worriedly at Dean, running through a mental checklist of the symptoms mentioned in the article.

Headache? Check.

Nausea? That would account for Dean's refusal to eat the pizza. Check.

Sore throat? Several times earlier he'd seen Dean wince and seem to have difficulty swallowing. Check.

Muscular pain? Dean had clearly been in some discomfort earlier. Check.

Dizziness? Sam had noticed, but chosen not to comment on, the way Dean had swayed and almost keeled over when he entered the room earlier. Check.

Fever? Sam padded across to the bed and risked getting his throat slit ear to ear by gently laying a hand on Dean's forehead. Dean muttered something and turned his head. He was hot. Too hot. Fever? Check.

Crap.

Trust Dean to have every symptom in the book.

Sam's gut twisted in anxiety. He knew Dean's heart had been fully healed – a specialist had assured them that there was no evidence of damage. Yet he still worried that the reaper might have done something in the later attack on Dean – the attack he was sure his brother hadn't resisted as fully as he should have. That would explain why he'd been susceptible to this virus and was possibly in danger of suffering complications, as the article had warned.

Sam decided not to take any chances. Somehow, he'd convince Dean to stay in bed and rest the next day. He'd solve the case on his own, if he had to, but he wasn't going to risk losing his brother again.

A quick rummage through the first-aid box revealed that they were low on supplies of painkillers of any kind.

Sam considered his options. They could do a run to a pharmacy tomorrow, but it would save time to do it now. He was tired, but it wouldn't take long, and he could do with some fresh air after sitting cramped up over the laptop.

He scribbled a note for Dean and left it propped up against the clock on the bedside table. Reassured by the sound of Dean's soft snoring, he shrugged on his jacket and quietly left the room, then headed toward the motel office.

The night clerk gave him instructions to the nearest store, a few miles back toward town. He drove the short distance with the window cracked a little so the fresh air would help him stay alert.

As he pulled into the parking lot, he was surprised to see a couple of dozen cars parked there. Maybe shopping in the middle of the night was a popular pastime in this town. He took a space near the store entrance and killed the engine.

The sudden silence was welcome. He blew out a long breath, sat back and closed his eyes, allowing himself the space to think through the events of the day.

Dean was right. Sam hated to admit it but damn him, Dean was right. He was so caught up in anger toward his father that he wasn't giving this case a fair hearing.

Ever since Nebraska, Sam's anger toward his father had been simmering, always on the edge of bursting forth in a tirade of recrimination. Now the selfish, cold-hearted son of a bitch had proved he was alive and kicking and, as usual, didn't give a damn about anything or anyone except his own agenda.

Sam knew Dean was affected by Dad's silence, too. He could tell Dean was hurt. Oh, Dean would never admit it. He'd never say anything that would imply criticism of their oh-so-perfect father. That more than anything made Sam mad, because Dean deserved so much more. Dad's right-hand man since he was four years old, he'd done everything his father had ever asked of him, and how had he been rewarded? He'd been dumped like an unnecessary burden and left to come to his own conclusions about Dad's continued absence.

But Dean was right about the case. Sam knew his opinion was colored by his desire to prove Dad wrong, to prove to Dean that Dad could make mistakes. And that wasn't fair to Dean or to the innocent person who could become the next victim in less than twenty-four hours. If this was supernatural, he and Dean were the only hope that person had.

He ran a hand through his hair. If Dean was as sick as Sam feared he was, solving this case might just fall to him. He resolved to go over all the facts again, this time with a more open mind.

He went into the store, picked up everything he needed and spent longer than he'd have liked chatting with the pharmacist, an elderly lady who expressed concern when he explained that his brother was sick.

"You can't mess around with this virus," she said earnestly. "It's a nasty one, however much the authorities are trying to play it down. My brother who lives up north, he's a tough old bird. Never had a day's sickness in his life. He was in bed for five whole days before he shook it off." She looked at him sternly and wagged her finger. "You make sure your brother drinks lots of fluids and gets the rest he needs, you hear?"

Sam assured her that he'd take her advice to heart and hurried back to the Impala, anxious now to get back to check on Dean, his mind running through various strategies to keep Dean off his feet.

He opened the passenger door, dumped the bag down on the seat, and walked back around to the driver's side. As he was putting the key in the lock a voice right behind him said, "Hi there."

Startled, he turned quickly and came face to face with a smiling man standing less than a foot away.

"Sorry, did I startle you?" the man said.

Somewhat relieved to recognize the newcomer from earlier that day, Sam smiled back. "Just a little."

"Can't sleep?"

Sam shrugged, not sure he wanted to share his business with an almost total stranger. "Less crowds this time of night."

The man nodded. "I don't sleep too well – insomnia. I often come out at night, do some shopping, drive around. It's quiet, peaceful."

"Yeah."

"Have you made any progress in your investigations?"

"We have some theories," Sam lied. "Nothing concrete enough to share, though. But we're working on it."

The man nodded again. "Well, I wish you luck. It would help to know what really happened. I'll let you get on with it. You'll let me know if you come up with anything?"

Sam smiled. "Of course. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Sam turned back to the car. The hairs on his neck prickled with sudden unease when he didn't hear the sound of footsteps walking away. Then he felt a tiny prick in his neck.

"What the—" He half turned, but his legs buckled, and he felt giddy and disoriented. He started to fall, and arms locked around his waist, holding him upright. He twisted his body desperately and lashed out wildly, hand closing around his assailant's neck. He heard a grunt, felt something snap and then nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Against the Clock**

by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Dean woke.

He lay quietly for a moment, slowly registering the ache in his muscles and the throbbing behind his eyes. When he shifted position, the pain in his head deepened, like a band tightening around his skull, making him wonder if his brain was swelling and would explode at any moment.

A spasm shot through his spine, and he bit back a groan. If he'd gone a couple of rounds with a wendigo and then been run over by a passing truck he couldn't have felt worse. He'd had the flu in the past, with the usual pains, chills and weakness, but this was shaping up to be the mother of all viruses, and he needed it like a hole in the head with only hours to go before another victim died.

Without opening his eyes — he wasn't quite ready for that yet — he reached out a hand for the radio clock and only succeeded in knocking it off the table with a crash that only intensified the pounding headache.

He swore quietly under his breath and cracked open an eye, wondering if it was still night. The room was dark, the heavy drapes drawn across the windows. A glance at his watch showed 7:30 a.m. He'd been asleep for eight hours.

He looked across at Sam's bed.

The expected large lump was absent. Moreover, the bed was neatly made, which meant that either Sam had pulled an all-nighter on the research or had got up early.

He listened for the sound of the shower, and then realized that the bathroom door was ajar and the light off.

He felt a touch of unease. "Don't be stupid," he told himself sternly. "Sam's just gone to get breakfast." With an effort, he levered himself up on one arm and turned on the bedside lamp, wincing as the light burned his eyes. Great. Now he was turning into a vampire as well.

He fumbled for the fallen clock and retrieved it, along with a folded piece of paper that must have fallen off the table with it. Squinting against the strong light of the lamp he read, "One a.m. Gone to get some supplies. Back soon. Go back to sleep — you're sick. Sam."

The unease morphed into full-blown panic. One a.m.? That was six hours ago. Where the hell was Sam?

He lurched to his feet, and a wave of vertigo hit him, violent enough to send him crashing back down on the bed.

Shit.

He closed his eyes and waited until the black dots had stopped swirling behind his eyelids. Then he tried again, more slowly this time, and made it to his feet. He snagged his cell from his jacket pocket and hit the speed-dial number for Sam. Voice mail cut in immediately. He left a message, but knew in his heart that it was futile; Sam would have called by now if he could.

He drew back the drapes a few inches, shielding his eyes against the early morning sun. There was no sign of the Impala in the parking lot. That made sense; Sam would have taken it when he went out last night.

He had no choice. He had to go and look for Sam, despite his body screaming it's protest at the idea. Getting dressed took longer than it should have, but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, every muscle groaning. When he bent down to lace up his boots, nausea hit accompanied by an even more severe attack of dizziness, forcing him to sit down quickly, the room whirling in a kaleidoscope of color.

When he was sure there was no danger of passing out or throwing up, he rummaged around in the first-aid kit for some painkillers and came up with only a packet of Advil with one pill remaining. He swallowed it with a mouthful of water, grimacing as the mere act of swallowing awakened the raging pain in his throat, then scribbled a quick note for Sam, in case there was a logical explanation and Sam returned while he was out. He picked up his jacket and let himself out of the room.

The sun was still low as it fought for possession of the early morning sky, and Dean was grateful not to be facing the fierce glare of a noontime sun. Even so, the light seemed to penetrate to the back of his eyeballs, and he wished he hadn't left his shades in the Impala.

He paused in the lot, looking both ways up the highway for a clue as to the direction Sam might have taken.

_Think Dean, think._ He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, as if the action could chase the fog from his mind. The motel was on the very edge of town, so it was unlikely that there were any stores further out. Sam had probably driven toward town. Dean started in that direction, then paused as he passed the motel reception office. He pushed open the door and went up to the desk, where a pimply youth was dozing in front of a TV set.

The kid glanced up. "Help you?"

"Yeah. I was wondering if you saw my partner come past late last night?"

Pimples looked at him quizzically. "Your 'partner' came in around one, asked me where he could find a twenty-four-hour store."

"What did you tell him?"

"There's a Safeway a mile east of here. Just head for town, you can't miss it." He grinned. "You and your 'partner' have a tiff or something?"

Dean had no energy for a smartass comeback, so he just nodded his thanks and left.

He set out in the direction of town, walking along a narrow strip of coarse grass at the side of the highway.

A mile, the clerk had said, but Dean had barely walked a hundred yards at a brisk pace before he had to pause, sweating with exhaustion, hands braced on his knees, limbs heavy and trembling.

Dammit. This virus thing had sapped all his energy. He set his jaw and started off again just as the sound of an engine broke rudely into the morning stillness. Dean looked over his shoulder to see a farm truck bearing down on him. He stuck out a thumb and, to his mild surprise, the truck rattled to a halt beside him.

A grizzled head with a straw hat pushed back on curly gray hair popped out of the half-open window.

"Where you headed, son?"

Dean hesitated, feeling stupid. "I need a ride to Safeway."

Bushy eyebrows shot up. "You know it's just a mile, right?"

"Yeah. I'm, ah, in a real hurry." Dean watched shrewd eyes look him up and down, probably sizing him up as a potential axe murderer. "Please, it's important," he said, and the urgency in his voice wasn't faked.

The old-timer chewed on his lip, then shrugged. "Hop in then."

Dean climbed into the truck, leaned against the window and allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes for a few moments.

Barely five minutes later the truck turned into the entrance to the store, rattled through the mostly empty parking lot and pulled up just outside the entrance.

"They've got a decent pharmacy," the old guy said unexpectedly. "Best get something for whatever's ailing you."

"Uh… thanks," Dean said, surprised at the man's concerned tone. "'preciate the ride."

He jumped out, gritting his teeth as the impact sent shards of pain shooting though his back and head, and the truck rattled on its way, passing a black Impala parked in one of the slots nearby.

Swallowing his fear, Dean approached it cautiously. He found the keys in the lock of the driver's door, the door itself unlocked. Inside, he could see a bag on the passenger seat. He opened the door, reached across and snagged it, tipping the contents onto the seat. There were three packets of Tylenol Extra Strength, two packets of Advil, six bottles of blue Gatorade, a pack of heat pads and a bag of jelly donuts.

He swallowed. Sam had gone out just to get medicine for him. If he hadn't, if he'd stayed at the motel…

Pushing back the unproductive thought, he checked the rest of the car, then popped the trunk with some trepidation. Nothing seemed out of place.

_Sam, where the hell are you?_

He stood back from the car, trying to piece together a possible scenario. It looked like Sam had put the bag onto the passenger seat, then walked around to the driver's side and put the key in the door. Then, something had happened.

Fear gripped him again. It was possible that Sam had been overpowered by someone stronger, or by some kind of monster. Or, he might have been taken by surprise by someone who hadn't provoked suspicion. A woman? Someone he'd met in the store? Someone in uniform, like a cop?

He examined the ground around the car. Nothing out of the ordinary — some cigarette butts, a chocolate bar wrapper and a gray mess ground into the tarmac that had probably started life as a piece of gum.

Something a few feet away glinted, and he bent down to pick it up — a thin gold chain, broken at the catch. He stared at it for a moment, trying to read some significance in it, but came up blank. Still, he put it in his pocket. While it might just be a coincidence that he'd found it so close to the place Sam had gone missing, Dean didn't believe in coincidences.

The only glimmer of hope lay in the store, but after a futile twenty minutes questioning the staff, he gained little information of any use, except to confirm that Sam had been inside — a conversation with a talkative assistant at the pharmacy had confirmed that without a shadow of doubt.

It was official. Sam was missing.

Frustrated and near panic, Dean walked back to the Impala and sat down heavily in the driver's seat, leaning forward to rest his aching head on the steering wheel.

His body was nagging him to take some medication, climb back into bed and sleep for a day or two. But he couldn't afford to sleep. His gut told him that Sam was the next victim of the killer they were hunting. He didn't have a scrap of evidence to back it up, but he was sure — as sure as he'd ever been of anything. His stomach lurched. If Sam was the next victim, then he was still alive, but Dean had only twelve hours to find him.

Twelve hours before Sam died with a bullet to the heart.

Dean took a few deep breaths.

First off, he needed to be able to think straight. He reached for the bag and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade and the pack of Tylenol. He took two pills, washing them down with the blue liquid, then reluctantly took a donut out of the bag. The smell of it made him nauseas, but he knew he had to get something inside him. He gritted his teeth and took a small bite.

While he chewed and swallowed, with difficulty, a few bites of dough, he considered his options. He could go to the police. Yeah, right. He couldn't risk giving his real name, not after the business in St. Louis, and reporting a missing person under an assumed name was asking for trouble. If he got himself arrested, Sam was dead. Even if he did report it, it was unlikely the police would take it seriously for 24 hours and even if they did, they'd be looking in all the wrong places.

No, he was on his own, and if Dad was right, and Dean was convinced he was, something supernatural was behind these deaths. There was a reason and a pattern, and it was up to him to find it.

His brother's life depended on it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Sam jerked awake, panicking as he tried and failed to draw in a breath, eyes popping open in alarm to semidarkness. He breathed in again, this time through his nose, and relief flooded him as oxygen entered his system.

As full awareness returned, he realized that his mouth was firmly sealed shut with something — his money was on duct tape. He sat on a heavy wooden chair, ankles and wrists securely tied to its arms and legs with sturdy nylon cord.

Memories returned of a scuffle in the parking lot, the prick of a needle in his neck. He had no idea what had been in that shot, but his head pounded, he felt slightly nauseous and his mouth tasted like he'd chewed on one of Dean's week-old socks.

Sam blinked grit from his eyes, and looked around. The chair sat in the middle of a large, dimly lit room, the only light leaking thinly from a slit in the thick drapes drawn across the windows. He could make out shadowy shapes of furniture and bare wooden walls and floors.

His boots and jacket were gone, but his watch was still on his wrist. The illuminated figures showed five a.m.

He was angry with himself for turning his back on an almost total stranger. True, there had been no reason to suspect the man; nothing in their previous meeting had sounded a warning note. Still, he knew better.

His abduction had to be related to the case — it was too much of a coincidence otherwise. Had he and Dean inadvertently stumbled over the truth? Had he been taken to stop him from talking? They knew next to nothing at this point, but it was possible someone thought otherwise. If so, maybe Dean was here, similarly tied and gagged. His eyes searched the room, but even in the semidarkness, he could see that he was alone. Maybe Dean hadn't been abducted. Maybe… No. His mind shied away from the alternative.

There might be another explanation. What if he was the next intended victim? As far as he could tell, a flesh-and-blood human being had taken him, and unless the man turned out to be a shapeshifter or some other monster in disguise, then it looked as if Dad and Dean were wrong — they were dealing with a straightforward serial killer after all. But why? Why him, and why all the others in particular?

Sam's head ached trying to think about it, so he set the mystery aside and focused instead on the knowledge that if Dean were still free, he'd discover that Sam was missing very soon and wouldn't rest until he found him. It was comforting. Sure, he was an adult now and could look after himself – had made a point of leaving for college to prove he was his own man – but always in the back of his mind had been the certainty that his big brother would always protect him, always save him, as he had when they were kids.

But Dean was sick and, if the newspaper report was correct, likely to get sicker very quickly. He was in no condition to solve a case for which he had no leads, and although Sam knew Dean would push himself beyond his limits, his brother wasn't Superman.

Sam bit his lip. This time, he couldn't rely on Dean saving him. He could sit here, helpless, and wait for the killer to return, or he could find a way out of this mess.

He set his jaw and began to strain against his bonds.

* * *

After two hours' straight research in the local library, Dean conceded defeat.

Taking as his starting point the premise that the murders had been carried out by a supernatural being or monster, he'd hit the library to search its records for information on any strange sightings or similar deaths in the past — anything that might give him a clue what he was dealing with.

He'd been the first through the doors when the small library opened, and within ten minutes, thanks to a motherly woman who'd adopted him as soon as he flashed his most winning smile, was settled at a table in the most dimly lit corner, surrounded by stacks of newspapers and historical accounts dating back to the previous century.

Some of the material was stored on microfiche, which had proved a challenge physically. He'd struggled to concentrate as the small letters swarmed confusingly across the page, eyes burning and head pounding as he tried to make out the words. Several times nausea had welled up, sending him to the bathroom to dry heave until his body trembled with weakness and fatigue.

He'd fought through the discomfort to the end result — nothing. Zilch. Nada. Springwood should win a prize as the most boring and law-abiding town in Colorado. There had been no sightings of strange monsters stalking hikers in the woods and no mysterious, unsolved murders. He found a few suicides and a couple of domestic violence cases, but nothing that would point even vaguely in the direction of a clue to what he was facing.

Frustrated, he headed back to the motel and let himself into his and Sam's room, swallowing the quick burst of disappointment that it was empty. Some part of him had apparently hoped that Sam might be there.

With a sigh, he sank down on the desk chair and briefly rested his head in his hands. The constant struggle against the ever-present and almost debilitating headache was using up the small amount of energy he had. His forehead felt warm, and he registered that his whole body was hot and feverish.

He shot one longing look at the bed and then tore his eyes away, trying to push the pain to the back of his mind. There was no time to rest. It was already 11:30 a.m. — only ten hours to go before the deadline.

He scanned the desk and noticed Sam's notebook. He quickly skimmed through the notes Sam had made the night before, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of this before, but there was nothing new. Then, at the bottom, he found a curious note: "Jake Radcliffe, _Colorado Enquirer_, 08/26/07. Possible cover-up — worth checking out, but probably just a nutjob."

Dean frowned. He switched on the laptop and looked up the _Colorado Enquirer_. A quick glance at some of the news stories showed him why Sam's note sounded skeptical. "Strange craft sighted over San Juan Mountains." "Kennedy assassination precursor to alien invasion." A little more digging unearthed the editorial Sam had referred to.

"_I have been informed by a reliable source that the FBI covered up important facts in not only the Anderson case, but the three previous connected cases. These facts, uncovered during autopsy, point to an extraterrestrial cause for the murders."_

Dean sat back, considering. Sam was right. Radcliffe was at least a few pancakes short of a stack. Still, it was possible that he'd stumbled onto something important — not alien but supernatural activity.

He had nothing else to go on, so he had nothing to lose.

More research revealed that the newspaper had axed Radcliffe not long after the article was printed. Posing as Radcliffe's nephew, Dean sweet-talked a secretary at the paper into giving him the ex-editor's address.

As quickly as his aching muscles would allow he changed into a suit, fumbled a tie into an approximation of a knot and left the motel.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of Number 96 Magnolia Drive, a small house in a modest suburb. The houses around showed signs of age, but most had neat, well-maintained yards. Radcliffe's stuck out as an eyesore amongst them. It was badly tended, weeds growing rampant through cracks in the paving stones and the faded paint on the gate peeling.

Dean got out of the car, swaying as a wave of dizziness threatened to drop him face first onto the pavement. He held tightly to the doorframe until the feeling passed, then walked up the short path to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. The drapes were open, so he peered through the window of the rooms to the left and right of the door, but there was no sign of life. Frustrated, he was raising his hand to knock a third time when the front door of number 97 opened, and a middle-aged woman in a floral housecoat and slippers looked out.

"You won't find him in this time of day," she called.

Dean walked across to the small fence separating the houses. "I don't suppose you know where I can find him?"

She snorted. "Can't be certain, but I'd bet good money he's at Eddie's Bar." Her eyes raked Radcliffe's ill-kept yard disapprovingly. "Might as well take shares in the place; spends more time there than at his own home."

She gave Dean directions, and ten minutes later, he walked into an unpretentious room, thankfully with subdued lighting. A handful of early lunchers sat on barstools eating chili from large bowls, while a pool game was under way at the far end of the room.

Dean walked up to the bar.

"What'll it be?" asked the bartender, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with a square face and belligerent jaw.

"I'm looking for Jake Radcliffe."

The bartender eyed him suspiciously. "What's your business with Jake?"

"Old friend," Dean explained pleasantly. "Wanted to look him up, see how he's been doing since they let him go from the _Enquirer_."

Another suspicious look, then the bartender nodded toward a table at the far side of the room where a man sat alone, a bottle of whiskey before him. "He's over there."

Dean nodded his thanks and made his way to the table. "Jake Radcliffe?"

The man at the table must have been in his mid-fifties, of medium height and build with wavy, gray-streaked brown hair that flowed to his shoulders and a wide, drooping mustache. He looked more like Wild Bill Hickok than the ex-editor of a newspaper. When he looked up, he revealed a drinker's red-rimmed, watery eyes.

"Who's asking?"

"My name's Danny Sinclair." Dean fished out his I.D. and flashed it quickly. "I'm a private investigator looking into the June 6 murders."

Radcliffe narrowed his eyes. "I've got nothing to say."

"You sure? I read your editorial in the _Enquirer._"

Radcliffe grunted. "That editorial got me canned."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't mean it wasn't true, though, does it?"

Radcliffe barked a laugh, considered Dean for a long moment, then gestured to a chair opposite him. "Sit down, son. Drink?"

Dean shook his head and sank gratefully into the seat. "No, thanks. I'd like to hear about that cover-up, though."

Radcliffe laughed bitterly. "Why? Don't tell me you actually believe me."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. I've seen some strange things in my time."

Radcliffe drained his glass and poured another. He waved it at Dean in a salute. "If everyone had your attitude, son, the world'd be a better place."

Either that, or everyone would be a nutjob. Trying to ignore the persistent drumming in his head, Dean waited patiently for him to continue.

"I didn't make that stuff up, you know," Radcliffe said after a few sips of whiskey. "I had an informant in the coroner's office."

"What did they tell you?"

Jake hesitated, then shrugged. "Guess there's no harm in telling you now. He's moved on, and I've nothing more to lose." He snorted. "Plus, I'd just deny it, if you told anyone." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "The first victim, Karen Miller, she was shot through the heart. Bullet came right out the other side."

"Yeah, I know that already."

"Patience, son. The next one, they found a hole where the bullet went in, but no exit wound. The bullet went in, but it never came out."

"So? What's so unusual about that?" Dean was trying for patience, but he didn't have all day for the old drunk to get to the point.

Radcliffe whispered, "They never found the bullet."

Dean stilled. "They never… What do you mean?"

"What I said. They took the body apart, but there was no sign of the bullet. And it was the same with the next two."

Dean frowned. "Neither of the others had exit wounds either?"

"Nope." Radcliffe sat back and folded his arms. "They took those bodies apart too. Nothing. If there was a bullet, it disappeared into thin air."

Dean studied him, wondering if he was being had, but Radcliffe seemed sincere. "So, what did they think happened?"

"That's the point, isn't it?" Radcliffe said. "They don't know. That's why there's a cover-up. They don't know, and what they don't know, they don't admit."

Dean folded his arms and studied Radcliffe speculatively. "So, what do you think?"

Radcliffe licked his lips and glanced around before whispering, "Aliens."

"Aliens," Dean repeated, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

"What else? My best guess is the bullets were made of some extraterrestrial metal that melted in the body. It's the only explanation, ain't it?"

Not quite, but Dean wasn't about to share his own thoughts on the subject.

"Well, thanks for your honesty, Mr. Radcliffe," he said.

Radcliffe narrowed his eyes. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I believe there was a cover-up," Dean said honestly. "I'm just not sure about your explanation — you have to admit, aliens are a bit of a stretch."

"Maybe," Radcliffe conceded. "But I've seen things. Have a drink, I'll tell you some stuff that'll make your hair curl."

Dean stood up. "Thanks, but I can't stay. Some other time. Thanks for the help."

He took his leave and headed to the car.


	7. Chapter 7

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Back at the motel, Dean wearily sank down at the desk, sure that the adrenaline rush that always accompanied a breakthrough in a case was all that was keeping his aching body going.

The information gleaned from Radcliffe was important. He could feel it. It might even be the key to uncovering the truth.

He gritted his teeth against the various pains radiating through his body and washed two more Tylenol down with a bottle of Gatorade. Then he put the machine on for coffee. Caffeine wasn't the best idea to combat the raging headache – Sam probably would have insisted on something foul, like chamomile tea – but he needed the stimulant to keep functioning.

He sat back down, wishing like hell that Sam were with him to toss around theories. Since they'd been back on the road together, he'd come to rely on Sam's input. Their differing styles of working a case meshed perfectly. Sam was patient, logical and methodical, while he was more impulsive, intuitive and instinctive – together, they formed a formidable team.

Apart, Dean felt like half of a whole.

He firmly pushed away the constant, nagging fear for Sam that had been in the back of his mind since he'd discovered his brother missing. He needed to focus, treat this as if it were any case. He didn't have time to indulge in emotion. Sam didn't have time.

"Okay," he said aloud, figuring he could at least pretend Sam was there. "Let's look at this logically, Mr. Spock. It all started with Karen. Why? Why her?" There was no obvious answer to that one. "So, let's look at it from another angle. What's different about Karen than the other victims?" He began ticking the points off on his fingers. "One, Karen was the only woman. Two, she was killed with a bullet to the heart like the others, but it was a through and through, and they found the bullet – no reason to assume anything unusual about her death. The others were different, possibly supernatural." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "So maybe Karen _was_ murdered by a flesh-and-blood killer, like everyone says. But what if her spirit's still out there, killing others in revenge for her own murder?"

He ran the theory around in his mind for a while. He had not a scrap of proof, but the more he thought about it, the more his instincts told him he was right.

"So," he said aloud once more, "how is Karen choosing her victims?"

He gathered up the photos of the victims and laid them out side by side on the desk. Same age and sex, but there were no physical similarities. Scott Griffin had short, spiky, dyed-blond hair; Del Mason sported a military crew cut; and Vic Anderson had longish, untidy, dark brown hair. So, if the connection wasn't physical resemblance, what else did they have in common? That was the key. He was sure that if he could find the common link, he would know why Sam had been taken.

He closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand across his forehead. Every thought reverberated around his aching head, and he felt nausea building again. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and leaned forward on the desk, resting his head on his arms.

After a few moments, the nausea lessened, and the thumping retreated to a more manageable level.

Dean stood up, fighting the vertigo that accompanied the movement, and walked unsteadily over to the coffee machine. Despite the heat radiating from his body, a chill ran through him and he poured himself a mug and took a few sips of the strong, hot liquid. He needed to work out his next move. Should he check out the quarry, just in case everyone was wrong and that was the killing site? Because if it wasn't, he had no idea how the spirit was moving the bodies.

Then a thought occurred to him that was so obvious, he was angry with himself for not thinking of it sooner. If Karen was the killer, all he had to do was salt and burn her bones. He could work out where Sam was later.

The plan made him feel better; it was good to know that there was something concrete he could do. All he needed was to find out where she was buried. He turned to the computer, but the thought of switching it on made him queasy, given how he'd felt the last time he'd used it.

He suddenly remembered Rachel, Art Jackson's granddaughter. _"I've been doing some work on the cases, and I've compiled a lot of information."_Rachel might have the information he needed to find Sam.

The last thing he wanted was to bring an inquisitive journalist in on the investigation, but the clock was ticking. He rummaged around on the desk and finally found the card she had given Sam. After a slight hesitation, he flipped open his cell.

"Rachel Jackson," a bright voice answered.

"Rachel, hi," Dean said, putting a smile in his voice. "This is Danny Sinclair. We met yesterday—"

Her tone hardened. "Oh, yes. Mr. We-work-better-alone. I remember. Have you solved the case yet?"

Dean sighed. She wasn't going to make this easy. "Not exactly, no. Listen Rachel, there's some information we need, and I was wondering--"

"If I'd let you have a look at my research?"

"Ah – yeah."

There was a long silence. Then she said, "You weren't very interested in it yesterday."

"Yeah, well that was before…" Dean hesitated. "Look, I'm sorry if I was rude, but I really need your help. I was hoping we could meet and compare notes."

He didn't have to fake the desperation in his tone, and after a moment, she said, "All right. But there has to be something in it for me. I want exclusive rights to anything you find. That means you don't share with any reporters but me."

"You got it."

"Good. I can meet you in about thirty minutes."

Thirty minutes sounded like forever. "You can't make it right now?"

"Don't push it, hotshot. Three p.m. at the Baker's Dozen on North Main. Think you can find it?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll do my best."

"See you then."

………………………

At five before three Dean pushed open the door of the Baker's Dozen, a homely bakery and coffee shop on the corner of a downtown side street about a hundred yards from where Rachel worked. Rachel had just walked in. He knew because he'd been sitting in the car outside for the past fifteen minutes.

He spotted her at a corner table and walked over, holding up a slim folder of papers. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

She raised an eyebrow, smiled and waved a bulging folder held together with an elastic band.

Dena grimaced. "You win. How about, you show me yours, and I'll buy you coffee and pie?"

She looked at him long and hard, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Make that a slice of Betty's homemade pecan, and you have yourself a deal."

Dean took a seat across from her, thankful that she seemed to have eased up a little. He beckoned a passing waiter, and ordered two coffees and a slice of pie.

Rachel eyed him speculatively. "You're not having pie?"

"Not right now."

She pursed her lips. "I'd have definitely put you down as the pie type."

He smiled, impressed with her perception. Well, she was a reporter, after all. "What, I've got 'give me pie' tattooed on my forehead?"

Rachel smiled back. Definitely easing up. "You might as well have."

"Well, you're right," he said. "Just not today."

Rachel nodded. "You're sick."

Dean nodded wearily, not bothering to deny it.

Frankly, if he'd felt like crap before, now he felt like a whole town's worth of crap had been shoveled together and dumped on him. The headache pulsed fiercely over his right temple, as if someone was trying to drill a hole through his skull. The simple act of breathing spiked pain through his throat. Every movement sent slivers of pain through his back and his skin was burning and sensitive to the touch. It didn't help that the usually delicious aromas of fresh-cooked bread and pie made him want to throw up, and puking all over Rachel wouldn't be the best way to get on her good side.

"Thought so," Rachel said. "Grandpa was right. You looked sick yesterday. Now you look like crap."

"Thanks," he said wryly. "Anyone ever tell you, you have the best pick-up lines?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Seriously, if you have this virus that's going round, you should be in bed," she said and went on quickly, clearly anticipating a comeback. "And that wasn't an invitation."

Dean managed a half-smile. "You're probably right, but I don't have time to be sick." He nodded at the folder on the table in front of her. "Now, how about you show me what you've put together on the cases?"

"Okay." She pulled off the elastic band. A stack of photographs sat on top.

Dean picked them up and began to scan them. The first was Karen Miller, the second Karen with her husband Randall. The third was a man in his mid-twenties, tall with wavy, dark hair falling into his eyes. He reminded Dean of Sam. "Who's this?"

Rachel peered at the photo. "That's Del Mason."

"Del Mason?"

"One of the victims."

"I know who Del Mason is," he said impatiently. "But he looks different – he had a military cut in the newspaper clipping."

Rachel nodded. "They used his army photo for that – the editor thought it made the whole story seem more tragic. You know, 'War veteran brutally murdered' sounds more dramatic than 'car mechanic found dead.'" She sounded as if she didn't approve.

Dean felt a stirring in his gut. This was important. "So… when he was killed, this is how he looked?"

She looked at him quizzically. "Yes. Does it matter?"

"You have no idea." It changed everything. The man seen with Karen on the day of her murder had long, dark brown hair. Now, two of the three victims matched that description. That couldn't be a coincidence. Excitement mounting, he pulled out the picture of Scott Griffin, Rachel's cousin – the odd one out with the spiky, dyed blond hair. "Is this how Scott looked when he died?"

She shook her head. "No. This photo was taken six months before his death. He was going out with a girl who had a thing against blonds – her ex was a blond, or something. Scott was really into her, so he grew his hair out." She smiled, then a spasm of pain crossed her face. "Scott was a bit of a rebel, but he was starting to straighten himself out. He'd got a full-time job and everything." She stopped and looked away, biting her lip.

Dean gave her a moment, then asked quietly, "So I'm betting that when he died, he had long, dark brown hair?" It made sense -- if the mystery man was Karen's killer, her spirit would pick men who looked like him.

Rachel shook her head. "I know where you're going with this. You think all the victims have a similar appearance. But that doesn't make sense, because that makes Karen the odd one out."

"And that's the whole point," Dean said.

"I don't understand."

Dean was faced with a dilemma. Rachel seemed to be a shrewd woman, and he doubted he'd get much more help from her if she thought he was hiding something. There was no way he could explain his theory without telling her the truth.

Another time he might have walked away and got the information he needed by some other means. But time was running out.

He cleared his throat. "Look, Rachel, I have a theory about this, but if I'm going to tell you, there's something else I need to tell you first."

She arched an eyebrow. "I suppose you're going to tell me you're the murderer?"

"Hysterical." He kept his expression bland, although a smile was tugging at his lips. He liked this girl, but although he'd usually have appreciated the opportunity to exchange banter with a quick-witted, attractive woman, now wasn't the time.

"Sorry." She smiled. "You look so serious. Just tell me, whatever it is."

Dean hesitated. "I need you to promise you'll keep quiet about what I tell you."

"Uh uh." Rachel vigorously shook her head. "This could be my big break. I can't promise anything that'll jeopardize the story."

Dean considered. Once she knew the truth, she'd also know that if she pitched the story to her editor, she'd probably go the same way as Jake Radcliffe. "Okay," he agreed. "When this is over, if you feel there's a story you can pitch to your editor, you go ahead, so long as you leave me and my partner out of it. Deal?"

She looked at him closely, as if weighing his sincerity, then nodded. "Deal."

"Okay. First off, my partner and I, we're not private investigators," he paused with a half-shrug. "Well, not in the way you think. We investigate… unusual cases. We kind of specialize in the supernatural." He watched her closely as she took that in.

"You mean…," she said slowly, "you're like Mulder and Scully or something?"

"Something like that. We hunt ghosts, spirits, monsters … things that go bump in the night."

Rachel's eyes widened. "You're kidding me, right?"

Dean looked at her seriously. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

She let out a long breath. "Okaaaay. So… what are you trying to tell me? You think a ghost killed all these people?"

"A spirit, yeah."

"That's… ridiculous."

"Maybe, but it's true." He leaned forward. "Look, Rachel, I've told you all this because I need your help. My partner… he's missing, and I think he's been taken as the next victim. That means he's only got a few hours left before..."

"Missing?" Rachel looked startled. "Since when?"

"Last night. He went out while I was sleeping. When I woke up there was no sign of him."

Rachel's eyebrows shot up. "So, when you say he's your 'partner'..."

"He's my brother," Dean explained impatiently.

"Oh." She looked a little embarrassed at jumping to the wrong conclusion. "Sorry. Go on."

"I found the car in a store parking lot, keys in the lock, groceries on the seat. No sign of Sam."

"Sam?"

"Our names aren't Wilde and Sinclair. My brother's Sam. I'm Dean."

She looked at him questioningly.

"Some of the things we have to do… aren't exactly legal," he explained. "And, well, let's just say your average cop doesn't stop to ask questions."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Are you telling me you're wanted by the police?"

"Not exactly." He wasn't about to explain that Dean Winchester was recorded in the FBI's files as a deceased serial killer. "Look, Sam and I are the good guys – you just have to trust me on that. I don't have time to explain it all to you now."

She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay… Dean. I have no idea why, but I believe you. So tell me, what makes you think your brother is the next victim? It could be a coincidence."

Dean shook his head. He pulled out the photos of the two victims and took one of Sam out of his wallet. It was an older picture, from Sam's high-school graduation, but it was still clearly Sam. "Notice any similarities?"

"Well, yes – but what about Karen?"

"I think Karen's spirit is the one killing these people," Dean said, putting Sam's photo away. "The dark-haired man seen with her the day before she died? I think he was her murderer, and now she's trying to get revenge by killing men who look like him."

Rachel stared at him. "That's insane. _You're_ insane."

"Probably," Dean agreed. "But do you have anything to lose by listening to me?"

She was silent for a moment, and then shrugged. "I guess not. So you're saying that Karen... that her spirit… is killing people who look like her killer. But… how could a spirit kidnap your brother?"

"I haven't worked that bit out yet," he admitted.

"And they were all killed by a bullet. Can spirits carry guns?"

"I can explain that, too." He quickly told her about his meeting with Radcliffe's information.

When he'd finished, she snorted. "I remember him ranting about alien conspiracies at the time, but no one in their right mind would listen to him. Dean, you can't believe anything he says – he's a total fruit loop."

"Maybe," Dean agreed, "But I think he's right on this one."

Rachel looked skeptical.

"Look," he went on quickly, "there's something I need to know. Does any of your research say where Karen was buried?"

Rachel frowned. "She wasn't buried. She was cremated."

Dean felt the ground sink beneath him. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. Wait, let me check." She flipped though the pile of papers until she came up with a three-page article. "Here, it says in her husband's interview that he'd honored her wish to be cremated." She paused and shot him a quizzical look. "Why, is it important?"

"If a body's burned, it can't come back as a spirit," Dean explained.

"So it isn't her?"

Dean chewed on his lip. "It has to be her. Nothing else makes any sense. I'm missing something."

He took the article from her and immediately two pictures drew his attention. One was of the happy couple on their wedding day, staring blissfully into each other's eyes. The other was of Randall, obviously taken after Karen's death. He looked gaunt and lost, very different from the smiling man in the previous picture. Something caught Dean's eye, and he looked more closely at the photo. There was something hanging around Randall's neck. A glimmer of hope returned.

Dean pointed to the picture. "Rachel, does that look like a locket to you?"

She held the paper up and studied the picture, then nodded. "So, do you… Hey, I just remembered something." She began reading through the article, then stabbed her finger at a paragraph at the end of the second page. "There! Listen to this: 'I wanted to give Karen a proper burial. Cremation felt so permanent, somehow. But it was her wish, so I honored it. But I kept a lock of her hair. It may sound morbid, but I put it in this locket, and I'll wear it every day for the rest of my life. It helps me feel that Karen is still close to my heart.'"

"When we interviewed him," Dean said slowly, "he kept putting his hand to his heart every time her name was mentioned. He must have been wearing the locket under his sweater."

"So – what does this mean?" Rachel asked.

"It means that Karen's still the number one suspect. A spirit can be tied to this world if something of them remains – something like a lock of hair. And there's something else." He paused as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "I think her husband's helping her."

Rachel frowned. "Randall? That's a real stretch. I interviewed him a couple of times. He seemed like a sweet, gentle man. I can't imagine him hurting anyone."

Another memory flashed through Dean's mind, and he fished around in his jacket pocket. He held up the gold chain. "I found this in the parking lot where Sam was taken. I'm willing to bet it used to live around Randall's neck." As he spoke, he pictured the chain breaking as Randall struggled with Sam. In his hurry to get away, Randall must have picked up the precious locket but left behind the now useless chain.

He pushed away the question of how Randall could have subdued his younger, stronger victim, and turned his attention back to Rachel, who was looking at him doubtfully.

"But… why?" she asked. "Why would he do this? Why is he helping her kill innocent people?"

Dean shrugged. "Grief can do strange things, and if he loved her that much…" He paused as another memory stirred. "He said that he could still feel her with him. I thought that was just his grief talking, but what if it wasn't? What if it really is her spirit he can feel?"

Rachel chewed on her lower lip, then shrugged. "Well, I'm not sure I'm convinced, but it's the only lead we have, so we might as well go with it. What do you want to do next?"

"Go to his house, check it out."

"Great," Rachel said, standing up and gathering papers back into the file. "We'd better get moving then, if time's running out."

"Whoa." Dean rose hurriedly. "What do you mean, 'we'? _I'm_ going to check it out. You're not coming."

She eyeballed him, hands on hips, jaw tilted forward in a pose that reminded him of Sam. "Oh, no you don't. This could be my big break. You're not leaving me out."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You think you'll be able to write about this? One mention of restless spirits, and you'll be labeled a nutjob."

"Maybe. But I still have to try." She crossed her arms over her chest. "You know, no matter what you say, I'll just go on my own anyway."

Dean groaned inwardly. Short of locking her up somewhere, there wasn't much he could do. It would be safer to keep her with him. At least that way he'd be able to protect her should everything go to hell in a handbasket. "Okay, you can come." He jabbed a finger at her. "But you do what I say, when I say. Got it?"

She rolled her eyes and saluted smartly. "Yes, _Sir_. Let's go."


	8. Chapter 8

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

* * *

**Chapter 8**

For the hundredth time Sam tugged futilely against his bonds, wincing as rope rubbed painfully against already raw skin.

He had been left alone in the cabin all day, and although he was grateful that he could track the time, it proved a double-edged sword. There was nothing to do but watch the hands go round — oh, so slowly — for hour upon hour until he was ready to scream with sheer frustration. Screaming, of course, wasn't an option, not with the duct tape still firmly in place. His mouth felt dry as parchment, and he would have given up at least one of his limbs for a drink of water.

He was stiff, discouraged and, although he tried to push it to the back of his mind, more than a little scared.

Getting himself out of this mess was proving to be an impossible task. Despite his increasingly desperate efforts to break free, the ropes had remained stubbornly firm. He knew that his only chance now was to trick his assailant when he returned, or talk the guy into letting him go.

The odds weren't exactly stacked in his favor.

His thoughts turned to Dean, as they had almost constantly over the long hours, knowing that his brother would be frantic with worry. Sam had no doubt that Dean would figure out what was going on – he was far smarter than he often let on – but he was sick and working with very few facts to a tight deadline. And even if he did work out who the killer was, how would he know where Sam had been taken? Sam himself didn't know that.

Still, the confident voice of a much younger Sam kept whispering in the back of his mind, _"Don't worry. Dean will save you. He always does."_

He checked his watch. 8:30 p.m. Time was running out.

The sound of a key turning in a lock was startling in the silence. The door opened, and his captor walked in carrying a small bag, which he put on the table. He pulled a bottle of water out and walked across to stand a few feet in front of Sam.

He stood there, just staring at his captive. Sam stared back defiantly. He wasn't about to show fear.

After a moment, the other man said conversationally, "You must be thirsty, so I'm going to take the tape off your mouth. I want you to understand that there's no point in shouting for help – there's no one around to hear you. But loud noises make me nervous, so if you do shout out, I'll have to put the tape back on and take the water away. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded. It wasn't as if he had a choice.

His captor bent over him and ripped the tape off in one painful move. Sam grimaced and worked his jaw, grateful he could breathe through his mouth again.

A bottle of water was put to his lips, and he took a long swallow, coughing as the water went down the wrong way. He was allowed another couple of sips before the bottle was taken away.

The other man pulled up a chair, positioned it a few feet away from Sam, and sat down.

Sam observed his captor. Randall Miller looked as mild and inoffensive as he had the previous day. Then, Sam had felt an overwhelming sympathy for the man who had lost his wife so tragically. He found it difficult to see Miller as a serial killer and especially not as the killer of his own wife.

"Why am I here?" Sam asked, his voice raw and scratchy. It was a question he'd pondered long and hard over the long hours, and although he had a few theories, none of them made much sense.

"You know why," Miller said mildly.

"No, I don't. You're going to have to tell me."

Miller sighed. "It's no good denying it. I know you murdered my Karen."

"I… _what?"_ Sam wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this. "You think _I _murdered your wife? Why would you think that?"

Miller leaned forward. "The moment I saw you, I knew you were the one. You look just as they described you."

Sam frowned. "I don't understand."

"The witnesses," Miller said patiently, "the people who saw you with Karen before her death. They described you. I always knew you'd come back in the end, and now you have."

Sam's mind reeled as he tried to process what Miller was saying. It was clear Miller believed every word, and that shot one large hole through Sam's best theory.

There was only one other option. Miller wasn't a psychotic serial killer. He was a murderer all right, but one who was out for revenge. And he'd been trying to find the right man for the past four years.

"I suppose that's what you thought when you took Scott Griffin?" Sam challenged. "But you had the wrong man. What about Del Mason and Vic Anderson? You got it wrong with them, too."

Miller shrugged unconcernedly. "It was unfortunate that they had to die, but I couldn't take a chance. I couldn't risk letting Karen's killer walk free."

"You got it wrong three times," Sam said heatedly. "What makes you think you're right this time? Think about it. I've never met your wife. I've never even been to Springwood."

Randall shook his head. "You're the one. I know I have it right this time."

"What if you're wrong? You'll chalk my death up as another little mistake, and try again next year?"

Randall cocked his head and said matter-of-factly, "If I have to. Karen must be avenged."

The man's quiet conviction was chilling.

Sam tried another tack. "What makes you think this is what Karen would have wanted? I saw her photo. She looked like a nice person. Would she have wanted you to start killing innocent people?"

Miller studied him, expression serious. "You're right. She wouldn't want me to kill people. It isn't my place. It's Karen's right to avenge her own murder, and I wouldn't think of denying her that honor."

An idea took hold, and Sam chose his words carefully. He didn't want to set Miller off. "Are you saying Karen's still here?"

Miller's eyes lit with devotion, and he nodded. "She's still with me. Soon, you'll meet her too."

Miller caressed a large gold locket that hung around his neck on a piece of string. He opened it up, and Sam caught a glimpse of a photo on one side and a lock of hair on the other.

There it was. Proof positive. Dad and Dean had been right. This was a supernatural case after all.

Karen Miller's spirit was the murderer, and in less than thirty minutes, he'd become her next victim.


	9. Chapter 9

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

* * *

**Chapter 9 **

Randall Miller's one-story house was on the outskirts of town, set back from a quiet country road. Dean drove slowly past, noting that the Toyota jeep he'd seen in the driveway yesterday was missing.

He parked a hundred yards further down the road, out of sight of the house, got out of the car and popped the trunk.

A wave of dizziness washed over him and he held on tightly to the sides of the trunk, closing his eyes until the feeling passed.

The drive to Miller's house had been a trial. He'd had difficulty focusing on the road, the need for concentration escalating the pounding in his head to epic proportions. Every bump and pothole had jarred his already aching muscles and the sheer effort of holding it all together was sapping all his strength. He was close to panic, because he wasn't sure how much more his body could take without shutting down. And that couldn't happen. Not yet. Not until Sam was safe.

He set his jaw. No way would he allow a stupid virus to stop him saving his brother.

He wasn't sure whether he'd be facing a human or supernatural foe, so after some consideration, he loaded a shotgun with salt cartridges, putting some spares in his pocket, then picked up a .45 with ordinary lead bullets. Satisfied he was ready for all eventualities he slammed down the lid of the trunk and turned to find Rachel watching with her mouth open.

"What?"

"The trunk. All those weapons. You really need all that stuff?"

He gave her a grim smile. "You'd be surprised. I'll tell you about it later, when we have Sam back."

They walked back to Miller's house. It stood at a distance from its nearest neighbor, stands of tall fir trees on three sides of the extensive yard shielding it from prying eyes.

Rachel had called Miller's home number on the drive over and got voice mail. That didn't guarantee Miller wasn't home – he might be "busy" with his latest victim. Dean tensed at the thought, pain stabbing through him as his spine stiffened.

He left Rachel on the porch and checked around the house. Most of the drapes were open, and peering cautiously through, he saw no sign of life.

He debated ringing the doorbell, then decided against it. If Miller was at home, he wanted the element of surprise.

"Keep a lookout," Dean ordered tersely as he got to work on disabling the alarm system he'd spotted on one side of the porch. Fortunately, Miller hadn't invested in state-of-the-art equipment, and it took only a few minutes to disarm the box.

Rachel raised an eyebrow as he began to jimmy the front door lock. "So, I guess breaking and entering is a routine part of being a ghostbuster?" she remarked.

Dean shot her a quick look. "We do what we have to." The lock clicked open. "I'll check the house. I want you to stay right here on the porch until I come back for you."

Rachel frowned. "Why can't I come in with you?"

Dean blew out a breath. He didn't have time for arguments. "Because there might be a killer in there, and if there is, I don't want to have to worry about you while I'm taking him out."

Rachel put her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin stubbornly. "I can look after myself."

"I'm sure you can, but humor me, okay? If I don't come back, or you hear anything you don't like the sound of – you get out of here. Got it?"

With obvious reluctance, Rachel agreed, and Dean pulled out his gun and slowly pushed the door open.

The hallway was dimly lit and silent. Dean moved quietly through it and then the rest of the house, quickly checking all the rooms, including the attic and the basement. The only sign of life was today's newspaper on the kitchen table and a couple of dirty plates in the sink.

He hadn't really expected to find Sam – Miller would have been a fool to keep his victims in his own house – but still felt a stab of disappointment as he returned to the hall.

Rachel was there, examining the small pile of mail on the stairs.

"I told you to wait outside," he growled.

She glared at him defiantly. "I heard a car driving past. I thought it might be Miller."

Dean glared back. "This isn't a game, Rachel. Miller's dangerous. Remember that."

"Okay, okay." Rachel rolled her eyes. "Where do you want to start?"

Dean thought about it. "Let's try the office."

The room was large and comfortable, acting as part office, part den. A desk with a computer stood in one corner, a small television set in the other. Shelves full of books lined the walls.

"What are we looking for?" Rachel asked.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Something that'll link him to the murders and give us a clue where he is."

Dean started with the desk, while Rachel examined the bookshelves. Miller was a neat man, the few papers on the surface stacked neatly in a filing tray. One drawer was packed with hanging files, and Dean went through those quickly, finding nothing more interesting than copies of bills and insurance policies. He turned on the computer, but again, the files were mostly related to bills and business and not even password protected. Miller's e-mail account showed little activity, and the history on his web browser led to mostly news and information sites.

Miller showed all the signs of a man with nothing to hide, and Dean felt his confidence slipping.

"I think I might have something," Rachel said.

Dean looked up. "What?"

"There's a whole shelf of books here, all about ghosts and the supernatural and stuff."

Quickly walking over, Dean scanned the shelf she indicated and saw she was right. Miller had a comprehensive collection of standard texts about ghosts and spirits. He pulled a few out at random and found that Miller had made comments in small, neat handwriting in many of the margins.

"Anything else interesting?" he asked as he checked Miller's notes. All they told him was that he was on the right track – Miller had highlighted multiple passages referring to the means of anchoring spirits to this world.

"He has a wide taste in books," Rachel said. "Local history, politics, thrillers. And there's a whole stack of photo albums."

That piqued Dean's interest. "Show me."

He discarded half a dozen albums of Miller's childhood and looked more carefully through those that recorded his time with his wife. One album, dated 1998, was full of photos of the two of them looking blissfully happy in a country location. Shots showed the couple rowing on a lake, picnicking in a meadow and barbecuing outside a rustic log cabin.

"Do you know where this is?" he asked, pointing to the photo of the cabin.

Rachel looked at the photo and frowned. "I'm not sure. That lake in the background? It looks like one of the Emerald Lakes. There might be something in the file."

She flicked quickly through the research file she'd brought with her and pulled out one of the older newspaper stories. "I thought I'd seen the place before." She pointed to a photo in one article, showing Randall and Karen outside the same cabin. "This is the place they first met – it's owned by Randall's family. He proposed to her there, and they spent their honeymoon in the cabin. In the article, he says that the happiest days of their lives were spent there."

Dean felt a prickle of excitement. "That's where he takes them," he said with certainty. "It makes sense – it's the place he feels closest to Karen. That's where Sam is."

Rachel nodded. "Makes sense. The lakes are about ten miles out of town." She studied the photos again. "I think this is the lower lake – the cabin looks old. The cabins at the lower lake are rarely used for holiday homes anymore; most people have moved to the upper lake, where there are more facilities."

"Do you know which cabin is his?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't say in the article either. But Grandpa will know. He knew Randall's father – I think he's probably even been out to the cabin."

"Call him."

While Rachel made the call, Dean sank down into Miller's armchair and closed his eyes. He was hyped and desperate to leave, to find Sam, but he also needed a break from the relentless stabbing pain behind his eyes, and he felt so weak he was afraid his legs were going to give way. Every muscle throbbed, his limbs felt heavy and he knew the fever was taking a stronger hold – he felt as if all the blood in his body was about to boil.

He started and pulled away as he felt a hand on his arm.

"Hey," Rachel said softly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She touched his hand. This time he allowed it, too weary to resist and, though he was loath to admit it, her touch was somehow comforting

"You kinda zoned out on me there, and you're burning up, Dean. You're really sick."

"I'll be okay. I need to find Sam. There's not much time left. Did you get the address?"

She nodded. "I was right, it is the lower lake. Grandpa says the cabin's called "Fir Glade." It's one of the more remote cabins, on the far side of the lake, right next to a large stand of spruce."

Dean dug deep for his rapidly dwindling strength and dragged his weary body out of the chair. "You've been a big help, Rachel, thanks. If you show me the way to the lakes, I'll drop you back in town on my way out."

Rachel eyed him as he swayed and grabbed on to the arm of the chair. "No way, hotshot." Her lips thinned in a determined line. "I'm coming with you."

"Uh uh," Dean said firmly. "Not this time."

"Dean, listen to me," Rachel said, equally firmly. "First, like I said before, I'll just follow you up there anyway. I'm here for the story, remember? Second, I know the way, and you don't. The lower lake is hard to find – there are no real signs. And third, you look like you're going to collapse any minute. You can't do this on your own."

Dean raised a shaking hand to rub burning eyes and realized that she was right. His legs felt like lead, he was having trouble keeping on his feet and he was beginning to think it was normal for the room to be spinning. He doubted he could make it to the car, never mind navigate successfully to a lake in the middle of nowhere.

"Okay," he said finally, "but the same rules apply."

"Do what I say, when I say," Rachel recited and smiled. She reached out a hand and steadied him as he swayed again. "Come on, hotshot. Let's go find your brother."


	10. Chapter 10

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 10 **

Sam stared into Randall Miller's eyes and realized that the man had totally lost touch with reality. Yesterday, his eyes had been full of grief and Sam had related to him, understanding some of his pain. Now those same eyes burned with an almost missionary zeal.

Miller's warped consciousness saw nothing irrational in what he was doing. He truly believed that Sam was his wife's killer.

Sam stole a glance at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m., already into the window of opportunity for the murders to have taken place. Sam began to strain against his bonds again, knowing that Karen Miller's spirit could appear at any moment. Miller sat watching him, but seemed uninterested in his desperate attempts to break free.

Miller checked his watch and settled more comfortably into his chair. "It started just after her funeral," he said conversationally. "I wanted to give her a proper burial, but she'd always said she wanted cremation, and I honored her wish. What else could I do? But I had to keep something – some part of her – to remind me of her."

He looked down at the open locket, gently running his finger across the lock of hair inside. "She had such beautiful hair," he said softly, a fond smile on his lips. "It was the color of sunshine."

Miller looked up. "That was when everything changed. Wearing that locket – somehow, I could feel Karen with me, all the time. It made life bearable. And then, I saw her. About a week before the first anniversary of her death, I saw her – right where you're sitting. And she told me she wanted revenge on the man who'd killed her."

Sam stopped struggling and frowned. "She told you that?"

Miller smiled. "She didn't have to tell me. Karen and I could always communicate without words. I just knew."

"Why did you choose Scott? Did you _just know_ that, too?"

"Karen led me to him," Miller answered simply. "The very next day I saw him, walking along the sidewalk as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if he wasn't a murderer. He was exactly as he'd been described, and I knew. I knew he was the one."

"But he wasn't, was he?" Sam tried to sound patient, though he was screaming inside with frustration. "When did you realize you had the wrong man?"

"I didn't, but Karen knew. As she was taking her revenge. She looked… disappointed. I knew I had to try again."

Sam guessed that Karen herself hadn't been sure of her killer's identity – had the man worn a mask when he'd killed her? Whatever the explanation, when she'd touched her victim, she must have seen into his mind and known that he was innocent. By then, it had been too late.

"And you weren't concerned that your wife had murdered an innocent man?"

An expression of confusion crossed Miller's face, and for a moment, Sam felt he was making a breakthrough. Then Miller shook his head vehemently. "You don't understand. He wasn't the one, but he could have been."

With a stab of panic, Sam realized he was never going to break through the distorted reality in which the man was living. The guy was too far gone.

Suddenly Miller stood up and cocked his head. "I can feel her. Karen's coming."

An involuntary shiver ran through Sam as the room went cold. A moment later Karen Miller's ghost materialized a few feet from him. Sam recognized her instantly from the photo he'd seen at Miller's house. She was dressed in jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt stained by blood leaking from a hole in her chest.

Miller's face was alight with joy. "Karen, sweetheart!"

Karen turned to look at him.

He gestured at Sam. "Karen, I've brought your murderer to you, just as you wanted. You can finally have your revenge."

Karen turned back to Sam and cocked her head to one side. As she studied him, her expression morphed from curiosity to malevolence.

Sam began furiously struggling at his bonds as she advanced toward him, flickering in and out of existence, her face a mask of hatred. Miller stood by, watching the scene unfold.

Karen leaned over Sam and he rocked the chair violently in a desperate attempt to get away as she reached out a hand. She touched one finger to his chest and a red-hot, burning pain shot through him. The chair fell sideways, and as Sam hit the ground, he heard a piercing scream followed by a loud explosion.

* * *

"Stop the car over there."

Rachel pointed to an area that was little more than a clearing in the trees with space for one or two vehicles. Dean steered the Impala into it and killed the engine.

Rachel had been right about the Lower Lake being hard to find. There were signs for the Upper Lake, but alone he would never have spotted the narrow, unmarked track to the Lower Lake. Not only that, but his concentration was shot to hell by the piercing pain in his head, and his vision blurred by vertigo. Several times his steering had wavered, and he'd been saved by Rachel's shouted warning.

He was lucky he'd made it this far without wrapping the car around a tree.

He glanced at Rachel. Judging from her white face and tight lips, she was in full agreement.

Rachel blew out a long breath. "You know what, hotshot? Next time,_ I_ drive."

Dean snorted. "Not in this lifetime, sweetheart. So, where's the cabin," he went on hurriedly as Rachel shot him a heated glare that might have set him alight if the fever wasn't well on its way to achieving that goal.

Rachel huffed and pointed to a track leading out of the clearing. "The cabin should be about two hundred yards that way, toward the lake."

Dean would have liked to leave the Impala further away – the sound of a car engine would travel a long way here, where the only other sound were occasional bird calls. However, it was already nine p.m. The coroner's reports had indicated that all the victims had died within the same timeframe – nine p.m. to three a.m. - which meant that Karen Miller could appear to claim her latest victim at any moment. Time was against him, and he had to get to that cabin as quickly as possible.

The clearing, which shielded the Impala from view of anyone inside the cabin, was an acceptable compromise.

Dean got out of the car, wincing as aching back and leg muscles protested. His legs buckled and he steadied himself against the door, then pushed his .45 into the waistband of his jeans and hefted his shotgun. He turned to Rachel.

"You're not coming with me this time," he said firmly.

"Why not?"

"I'm serious, Rachel. It's too dangerous. I want you to stay here."

Rachel vigorously shook her head. "No way. You should see yourself, Dean. You look like hell, and you're so dizzy you can barely focus on me. How are you going to save your brother if you pass out on the way to the cabin?"

Dean slumped back against the door of the Impala and closed his eyes for a moment. Rachel was right. The vertigo was a constant companion now. Every muscle and joint in his body ached and throbbed, speaking was beyond painful and his head hurt so badly he just wanted to scream for the pain to go away. The heat through his body told him the fever was intensifying, despite the chills that racked his body more and more frequently. He felt on the edge of collapse and cursed the illness that had stolen his strength. What if his body betrayed him before he could get to Sam?

Rachel took a step toward him and laid a hand on his arm. "You can do this, Dean. You're almost there. You just need to let me help you."

He could do this. He _had_ to do this. There wasn't a choice. "Okay." He took a wavering breath and drew himself up straight. "You can come as far as the cabin."

Rachel nodded.

They set off, Dean giving his whole concentration to putting one foot in front of the other. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground – looking ahead confused his senses as all he could see was a blur of trees. Several times he stumbled, and Rachel steadied him with a firm hand on his arm.

After what felt like a lifetime but which in reality must have been less than five minutes, Rachel nudged him and pointed ahead. He made out the lake as an expanse of darkness in the distance and, in front of them, a small, one-story building. A weak light burned inside, and outside stood a Toyota jeep.

Dean felt his heart rate speed up, and a surge of adrenaline bolstered his diminishing strength. He'd been right. Miller was here.

He turned to Rachel. "I'm going to look for a way in," he said in a low voice. "You stay here and keep out of sight." He expected her to protest, but this time she simply nodded. He handed her the car keys. "If I'm not out in twenty minutes, or if you hear gunshots, get the hell out of here and call the police."

Her eyes widened. "I can't just leave you here."

"Yes, you can. You have to. I'm not risking your life, too."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Good luck."

Dean edged up to the wall of the cabin. He couldn't see in, but pressing his ear to the window, he heard raised voices. Although he was unable to make out the words, he was sure one of them was Sam's.

He wanted to burst in then and there, but fear for Sam held him back. He needed to assess the situation before he took any rash action.

Edging his way around the cabin to the back, he found an open window. The drapes were back and it was dark inside. The door to the room stood ajar and beyond, he could see light shining.

He carefully pushed the window open further and fished out a small flashlight from his jacket pocket. Holding it between his teeth, he took a deep breath and hoisted himself up and through the opening. He'd barely set his feet down before his shaky legs gave out and sent him sprawling to the floor. He lay panting from the exertion for a moment, trying to ignore pain screaming through protesting muscles, then quickly got to his feet. Once upright, he flattened himself against the wall beside the door, ready in case someone had heard the noise and came to investigate.

Nothing happened. After a few moments he edged closer to the door. He could hear the voices again, coming from the next room.

The angle prevented him from seeing clearly inside, so he risked pushing the door open a couple more inches. The voices were louder now, and one of them was definitely Sam's. Dean's heart jumped in relief. His brother was still alive.

He nudged the door a little more. Now he could see Sam, tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He was talking to someone who was just out of Dean's line of vision.

Dean was debating his next move when a voice said, "I can feel her. Karen's coming."

The air around him took on a frosty chill and Dean's mouth went dry. This was it.

"Karen, sweetheart!"

Dean took a firm hold on the shotgun.

"Karen, I've brought your murderer to you, just as you wanted. You can finally have your revenge."

Dean saw a form, the spirit of Karen Miller, move into his line of vision, heading for Sam.

He slammed the door open and burst into the room.

Karen was leaning over Sam, arm stretched out and Sam's face contorted in pain as her finger touched his chest. The chair fell sideways as Dean fired, emptying both barrels into Karen.

She wailed and dissipated. Dean braced himself and his eyes went immediately to Sam. He studied Sam carefully, checking him for injuries and was relieved to see no obvious damage. "Sam, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam's eyes widened, focused on something over Dean's shoulder. "Dean, behind you!"

Dean spun round. Randall Miller, a look of rage on his face and a poker from the fireplace in his hand, uttered a cry of rage and charged him, driving him hard into the wall behind. The shotgun clattered to the ground as his head connected with the solid wood with a sickening thud. Pain exploded, reverberating through his skull like a shockwave and his vision blurred. Hee struggled to stay on his feet as Miller began to beat at him wildly with the poker.

Fortunately, Miller was no trained fighter. Dean gathered his scrambled wits, ducked a wild swing and caught the other man with a right hook that knocked him onto his back. The poker flew across the room. Dean moved in on Miller, hearing Sam shouting, "The locket! Get the locket!"

_Way ahead of you, little brother,_ Dean thought. He pinned Miller down, grabbed the locket hanging around his neck and gave it a sharp tug, easily snapping the makeshift string. Miller screamed with rage and began beating at Dean with his fists. Hampered by the need to hold on to the locket and his own rapidly diminishing strength, Dean struggled to fend the man off. Miller landed several punishing blows before Dean finally landed a punch to the jaw that dazed Miller long enough for Dean to scramble away.

He stood up unsteadily, pulled out the .45 and trained it on Miller as he searched frantically in his pocket for his lighter.

"Don't move!" he shouted as Miller dazedly began to climb to his feet.

Dean found the lighter and fumbled to open the locket with the same hand. He looked down briefly and heard Sam's frantic warning a fraction of a second after the air once again took on an ominous chill. No way. He'd emptied both barrels into Karen – there was no way she should have been able to come back so quickly. But back she was, and before he had time to react, she turned his way and thrust out a hand.

The force hurled Dean across the room, and for the second time, he slammed into the wall with brutal force. This time, his left shoulder took the brunt. The .45 flew from his hand and pain lanced through his shoulder. Black dots danced before his eyes, and his legs gave way as he dropped heavily to the ground.

Karen ignored him, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw her advance on Sam. Sam fought desperately with his bonds, rocking the chair, and shouted, "The hair, Dean! Burn the hair!"

Dean bit back a groan and rolled his eyes. "Dude, I'm trying!"

He heard a cry of outrage from Miller, and the next moment the man was on him, stamping down hard on the hand holding the locket. Dean cried out in pain as he felt bones snap, but closed his fist and held on grimly. Miller lifted his foot again and Dean shifted, summoned all his strength and kicked out hard, catching Miller soundly below the knees. Miller went down, and his head struck the corner of the table, momentarily stunning him.

Dean fought darkness and nausea and opened the locket with shaking fingers. He tore the lock of hair out, flicked the lighter into flame and held it to the hair.

_Come, on, come on, come on. _The flame was taking forever to take hold, and he could see Sam squirming as Karen reached out toward him. _Come on!_

The lock of hair ignited in a burst of golden light and Karen screamed - a long, drawn out, inhuman wail. Dean lay back, totally spent, and watched through cloudy vision as her body dissipated.

Then she was gone.

Miller was back on his feet, blood streaming down his face from a cut on his head, the .45 clutched in his hand and pointed at Dean. His hand was wavering wildly, and his finger hovered over the trigger.

Dean swallowed, knowing that Miller was on the edge. The slightest thing could tip him over and cause him to pull the trigger.

Dean noted that both the .45 and the shotgun were beyond his reach as he got slowly to his knees, holding his hands out before him in a gesture of surrender. "It's over, Miller," he said steadily.

Miller's face was a mask of pain. "She's gone. I can't feel her any more."

"She's at rest now," Dean said softly.

"No!" Miller shook his head violently. "No, she can't be gone. I can't… you have to bring her back!"

"We can't bring her back," Sam said. Dean kept his eyes trained on Miller, calculating the distance between them as his brother spoke firmly to the distraught man. "There's nothing holding her here now. She's at peace. Isn't that what you'd want for her?"

"No!" Miller's voice was laced with anguish. "I can't lose her! Not again."

"Randall…" Sam began.

"I can't… I can't live without her."

Before Dean could even think of reacting, Randall Miller put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot echoed around the room like an explosion. Miller toppled to the ground, half his head blown away. Dean shakily got to his feet, looking down at the still body and sightless eyes. It was over.

He looked across as the door opened a few inches and Rachel's head poked through. She glanced around the room, her eyes widening in shock as she saw Miller's body. She pushed the door fully open and walked in, a metal snow shovel grasped tightly in both hands.

"Is that him? Did you… did you shoot him?"

Dean shook his head, which proved to be a big mistake as the room immediately began to spin. His head was on the verge of exploding, his legs were like Jell-O and his shoulder and shattered hand hurt like hell. "He shot himself," he explained wearily, then frowned as he remembered his instructions to her. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded. I told you to wait outside. What part of 'wait outside' didn't you understand?"

Shouting? Not such a good idea. He grimaced and put a hand to his head as a particularly violent stab of pain lanced through it.

"I thought you'd been shot," Rachel retorted. "What did you expect me to do?"

"I expected you to do what I told you—"

Loud throat clearing interrupted him.

"Uh… guys?" Sam said. "I hate to break up the lovers' quarrel, but… bit of help over here?"

With difficulty, Dean focused on Sam, still tied to the chair on its side on the floor. That had to suck out loud. "Sorry, Sam." Dean pulled out his knife, bracing his legs as his knees threatened to buckle. He frowned, wondering which of the four Rachels dancing before him he should focus on. "Rachel, would you cut Sam loose?"

He held the knife out in their general direction, and one of them stepped forward to take it.

"Sure. What are you going to do?"

Her voice seemed to come from a great distance, almost drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

"Me?" He glanced at Sam – alive, whole and safe.

His vision was beginning to close in. "I think… I think… I'm just gonna… pass…"

As the floor rushed up to meet him, all Dean felt was a sense of profound relief.


	11. Chapter 11

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

* * *

**Chapter 11**

When Dean collapsed at her feet Rachel hesitated, clearly torn between checking on him and setting Sam free.

"Rachel," Sam called urgently. "Check on Dean."

Rachel knelt beside Dean, her bent back obscuring Sam's view. After a moment, she looked over her shoulder with a worried expression. "He's out cold."

Perfect. Sam swallowed his anxiety and said calmly, "All right. Come and untie me. Then we can get him some help."

Giving Miller's body a wide berth, Rachel crossed the room to where Sam lay, knelt down and cut through the ropes binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. Sam wriggled away from the chair and stretched his body, relieved to be free after so long stuck in the same position. He rolled over and sat up, grimacing as pain lanced through cramped muscles, then flexed his fingers to get the circulation going. When he was sure his legs would hold him, he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and staggered across the room, dropping to his knees beside his brother.

He reached out and checked the pulse in Dean's neck. Alarm at both at the erratic beat of his brother's pulse and the heat radiating from his body quickly replaced Sam's momentary relief that Dean was alive.

He looked up at Rachel, who was hovering over them. "He's burning up."

She nodded, worry evident in her features. "I know. He's really sick. I don't know how he's kept on his feet so long."

"I do," Sam said softly.

He examined Dean quickly but gently, mindful of the times Dean had been slammed against the wall and Miller's vicious attack with the poker. As he'd half-expected, Dean's left shoulder was dislocated and he was sure his brother had some severely bruised if not cracked ribs. Three of the fingers on his left hand were definitely broken. Sam observed a canvass of miscellaneous bruises, probably made by the poker and Miller's fists, and a bird's egg-sized lump on the back of Dean's head.

Dean stirred and mumbled something incomprehensible.

Sam leaned in. "Dean? Come on, dude, time to wake up," he said lightly, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. "You really gonna make me carry your dead weight out of here?"

Dean muttered something else; his eyes fluttered open for a moment and then shut again.

Sam sighed. Dean was really out of it, and there was no time to wait for him to come around. They needed to get out of there. There were no words to explain adequately why the three of them were in the cabin with a dead man.

He glanced at Rachel. "Where is this place?" he asked.

"It's a holiday cabin, at Lower Emerald Lake. It's around ten miles from town."

"Are there people in other cabins?"

"I don't think so. Not many come here any more, and we didn't spot any other cars."

Sam nodded. "That's good. There's a good chance no one heard the shots." He hesitated. Obviously, Dean had made a decision to bring Rachel with him, but he wasn't sure how much Dean had told her or if she'd seen Karen's spirit. Their rule was to let as few people know what was really going on as possible – it was safer for everyone that way.

He glanced at Dean, but he'd be getting no help from that source. "Look, Rachel… how much did Dean tell you about what's going on here?"

She cocked her head. "You mean, did he tell me he thought Karen Miller's spirit was the serial killer, and Randall brought you here to be her next victim?"

Looked like Dean hadn't chosen the safe route. "Yeah, something like that."

"Was it? Karen, I mean. I heard a terrible scream. Kind of unearthly. Did she… did _it_…"

Sam nodded. "Karen was about to kill me. Dean got here just in time, blasted her with the shotgun."

Rachel frowned. "Can a bullet kill a spirit?"

"No, but it didn't kill her. The bullets were made of rock salt. It dissipated her long enough for Dean to get the locket from Miller and burn the lock of hair."

"Because her hair was keeping her here?"

"Pretty much."

"So… she's gone for good?"

"Yes."

Rachel glanced down at Dean, her expression unreadable. "Dean was right about everything. He was pretty convincing, but still, it was hard to believe."

"It gets easier," Sam said dryly. He turned his attention back to Dean, noting his brother's pallor relieved only by the red flush of fever on his cheeks, and his lips tightened. "Look, we can talk later. We need to get out of here and get Dean some help. Where's the car?"

"About two hundred yards back up the track."

"Do you think you can find it and drive it down here?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Of course I can. I'm not stupid."

Sam raised an eyebrow at the prickly response. "I didn't say you are. I just thought you must be a bit shaken up, with the body and everything."

She nodded, her face softening. "I guess I am. Sorry, I didn't mean to snap." She squatted beside him and reached out a hand to touch Dean's cheek. "I'll be right back," she said softly, and Sam wasn't sure which one of them she was talking to.

Sam fished in Dean's pocket for the key and handed it to Rachel. "Be careful. Dean will kill both of us if he knows I'm letting you drive his baby."

She snorted. "Tell me about it. He wouldn't let me drive, even though he was weaving all over the road."

Sam allowed himself a tight smile. "That's my brother."

Rachel gave him a half-smile. "Stubborn as a mule, huh?" She turned abruptly and called over her shoulder, "I'll be quick," as she let herself out of the cabin.

As soon as Rachel shut the door behind her, Sam did a quick tour of the cabin. He grabbed a pillow and a bed sheet from the bedroom, a wash cloth from the bathroom and a couple of bottles of water from the bag Miller had left on the counter, and went back to Dean. He knelt down and slid the pillow carefully under Dean's head then paused to study his brother for a moment.

Dean was still well out of it so Sam took the opportunity to immobilize his shoulder by improvising a sling with the bed sheet. He bound the broken fingers together and finally used some of the bottled water to wipe Dean's flushed face with the face cloth. Leaving the damp cloth draped over Dean's forehead, he drank down the remainder of the water and followed it with another bottle. In the heat of the action he'd forgotten how thirsty he was.

Satisfied that he'd done all he could for now to help Dean, he stood up and took a careful look around the room.

It was unlikely that anyone would read foul play into this scenario. Sam was pretty sure that the cops would buy the implication that Miller, still grieving from his wife's death, would choose the anniversary of her murder to end it all. Still, better safe than sorry. He quickly wiped down any surfaces he thought he or Dean had touched, straightened a couple of items of furniture, then took the gun from Miller's hand, wiped it clean of prints, and carefully replaced it.

With nothing left to do he returned to Dean. Resting a hand on his brother's arm, he winced at the heat he could feel even through the fabric of Dean's shirt. He took the washcloth, now warm from fever-heat, and ran it under tepid water from the kitchen tap. Then, fatigue beginning to set in, he slumped down beside his brother. He began to run the cloth over Dean's face and neck and allowed his mind to replay recent events.

Less than five minutes had passed from the moment Dean burst in through the door until the moment he did a face dive onto the floor.

Five minutes of helpless frustration for Sam as, bound and useless, he could do nothing but watch as his brother, clearly weak and on the point of collapse, had fought and beaten the human and supernatural combination of Randall and Karen Miller.

He saw again Dean's shaking hand set light to the lock of hair and felt the simultaneous heat of Karen's touch. He looked down at the small, neat hole in his T-shirt. Pulling up the shirt revealed a circle of red flesh where Karen's power had begun to burn through his skin, seeking his heart. He shivered as he realized just how close he'd come to dying.

But he was still alive, thanks to Dean. Dean had come through, just like always. Sam tightened his grip on his brother's arm. Somehow, despite the illness raging through his body, Dean had done it. In around fifteen hours, he'd solved the case and rescued Sam. "When I was a kid, I always thought my big brother was a superhero," he murmured softly to Dean. "Looks like I was right."

Dean stirred, and Sam snapped alert as his brother's eyes opened slowly and he looked around in confusion. Then Dean grunted and tried to push himself up. Sam put a hand lightly on his chest to restrain him and was frightened at how easy that was.

"Dean, relax. You're okay. It's all over."

"Sammy?" Dean frowned as he tried to focus on his brother.

"Yeah, it's me," Sam soothed. "I'm fine. You saved me, Dean. It's over."

Dean's eyes flitted from Sam to Miller's body beyond. He frowned. "Karen?"

"You burned the lock of hair, remember? She isn't coming back."

Dean took another good look at Sam and Sam felt tense muscles relax under his hand. Sam was relieved that he seemed to know where he was. Then Dean's brow creased with pain. "Feel like crap, Sam," he mumbled.

"I know. We'll get you fixed up soon."

"Mhmm." Dean barely seemed to take in the words. The effort of talking had sapped all his strength, and his eyes drifted shut. A moment later, they snapped back open. "Rachel?"

"Rachel's fine. She's gone—" Sam bit his tongue before he said "to pick up the car," knowing that would only agitate Dean. "She'll be back soon, then we'll get out of here."

Fortunately, Dean was too out of it to question him, and his eyes shut again.

A moment later, the door opened and Rachel hurried into the room. Her attention went straight to Dean. "We're all set. How is he?"

"In and out; mostly out. I'll have to carry him to the car."

"Not in this lifetime," Dean said weakly, eyes open again. "I can walk."

"No, you can't," Sam said firmly. "You're sick, and your shoulder's dislocated."

"So?" Dean's glare was a weak parody of its usual self but there was determination along with fever-brightness in his eyes. "Help me up, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes, but chose not to argue. Dean would probably pass out halfway to the car, but at least that way Sam wouldn't have to carry him so far, and Dean wouldn't be conscious and complaining while he did it.

Rachel went ahead to open the door, flicking a quick glance at Randall Miller's body. "Are you just going to leave him here?"

Sam nodded. "I've cleaned up our prints as best I can. One of us can make an anonymous call to the police later, tell them we heard a shot. When they investigate, it'll look like a suicide."

She paused for a moment, then shrugged. "That makes sense. Let's go then."

With Sam supporting most of his weight, Dean made it more than halfway to the car before his eyes rolled back in his head. Sam was ready and braced to take the whole of his weight. He shifted his grip and pulled Dean into a firefighter's carry, trying not to jostle the damaged shoulder. He bit his lip, wincing in sympathy at Dean's unconscious whimper of pain, and murmured an apology he knew his brother couldn't hear.

He staggered the final few feet to the Impala. He looked at Rachel. "Can you ride in the back with Dean, try and keep him still so he doesn't bump that shoulder?"

Rachel nodded and got in, and Sam maneuvered Dean in after her until he was lying on his side with his head resting in her lap. Then Sam walked quickly round to the driver's side and got in.

"Hospital?" Rachel asked as the engine started with a low growl.

Sam shook his head and began driving slowly up the track. "We can't take him to the hospital."

Her brow furrowed. "Why not? He's really sick, Sam, and he's hurt. Someone should take a look at him."

Sam shot a quick glance at Dean in the mirror, his resolve wavering. Rachel was right. What if Dean was even sicker than he looked? What if he had internal injuries that Sam had missed? It was the same decision they always had to make whenever one of them was hurt, and he hated it, hated having to balance the inevitable round of difficult questions the hospital staff would ask against the possibility that Dean might die of unseen injuries.

He was pondering his choices when Rachel spoke again.

"I get it. Dean told me all about your … 'job.' I guess hospitals come under the same category as cops, right?"

"Something like that," Sam admitted guardedly, wondering exactly how much Dean had told her. Sure, she'd been a great help but she was also a reporter and he didn't want to involve her more than he had to.

She must have noticed his hesitation.

"It's okay," she said. "I know your job is hunting ghosts and monsters and… things. And that sometimes you have to do things that the police might frown upon. I'm cool with it."

Sam cleared his throat. Looked like Dean had spilled more than a few beans. "Well... good. That's… good."

"So," Rachel went on, "I think we should take Dean to Grandpa's clinic. At the very least he can check Dean out and let you know how bad he is."

Sam hesitated. "It's pretty late. Won't he ask questions?"

"Sure he will. But better him than the police, right?"

She had a point.

Rachel gave an exasperated sigh. "Sam, you can trust Grandpa. He's very open-minded, and he trusts my judgment. It'll be fine, I promise."

Sam remembered yesterday's meeting with Dr. Jackson. Was it only yesterday? It seemed like a month had gone by. Still, it was all fresh in his mind, and he easily recalled liking the doctor.

He glanced at Dean, shivering and unconscious in the back seat, and nodded. "Okay. Call him."


	12. Chapter 12

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Following Rachel's directions, Sam drove around to the back of Jackson's sizeable two-story house-cum-clinic, which stood a little way back from its neighbors at the end of a block.

He'd listened carefully to Rachel's side of the phone call with Jackson. She hadn't given too much away, but it was clear from her responses that while the doctor was willing to help, he expected a full explanation when they arrived. Well, he wouldn't be the first to find out the truth about the Winchesters' occupation, and Sam just hoped that he was as open-minded as Rachel seemed to think.

Once Rachel had talked to Jackson and they were a good distance away from the lake, Sam had made an anonymous call to the police, reporting that he'd been walking his dog when he'd heard a gunshot from the direction of the cabins. That should be enough for the police to investigate and find Miller.

Sam pulled up beside a pickup truck in front of a small porch and killed the engine. He could see Jackson silhouetted against the light shining in the doorway, and as he and Rachel got out of the car, the doctor hurried out to meet them.

Jackson nodded at Sam. "Mr. … Wilde, wasn't it? Brett, I believe."

Rachel looked at Sam, and he shrugged and nodded. "Actually," she said, "his name's Sam." As Jackson raised an eyebrow, she raised a hand and added quickly, "I'll explain about that later. You need to help Dean, Grandpa. He's injured, and he's really sick, too."

Jackson frowned. "And I assume Dean would be Mr. Sinclair?"

"Please, Grandpa. I'll explain everything later, I promise,."

Jackson looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. I trust your judgment, Rachel, you know that."

The back door of the car opened and Sam ran to it quickly, just in time to catch his brother as Dean half-fell out of the Impala. "Easy, Dean, take it easy." He propped Dean up against the side of the car and put a hand on his good shoulder to make sure he stayed there. Dean seemed to be barely half-conscious, responding to Sam in grunts and unable to bear his own weight.

Jackson immediately moved to Dean's other side.

"Don't touch his shoulder," Sam warned quickly. "It's dislocated. And I think he has some cracked ribs, too."

Jackson raised an eyebrow again but held back on the questions.

Between them, they got Dean into the house and into a room Jackson indicated on the right side of a long corridor. "Guest bedroom," he explained as they carefully laid Dean down on the nearest of the two queen-sized beds.

Jackson looked at Sam. "I could see your partner was sick yesterday, and if he has this virus that's going round, I suspect his condition deteriorated very quickly, am I right?"

Sam nodded. "He seemed pretty sick when he went to bed last night. I gave him some extra-strength painkillers – that was all we had."

Jackson sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Dean's forehead. Dean grunted, his hand coming up reflexively to swat it away, then dropping away weakly. "Hmm," Jackson went on, unperturbed by his patient's lack of cooperation. "High fever. We need to get that down a little. I'm guessing that he hasn't spent the past twenty-four hours resting?"

Sam bit his lip. That was one way of putting it. "No. It's a long story."

Jackson gave him a sharp look, then sighed. "Well, I suppose it can keep." He turned to Dean. "All right, son, let's take a look at you."

Dean had seemed oblivious to the conversation going on around him, but as Jackson spoke to him, he tried to push himself up, resisting when the doctor put a hand on his good shoulder to hold him in place. "Let me go. Don't have time to rest… Gotta find Sam… Time's running out…"

Sam perched on the other side of the bed and put a hand on Dean's arm. "I'm fine, Dean. You found me. You got there in time. I'm fine."

Dean looked around, clearly confused. He continued to struggle against Jackson's restraining hand. "Sam… Karen… gonna kill him…"

Ignoring Jackson's questioning frown, Sam leaned forward and cupped Dean's head with one hand, making his brother look at him. "Dean, I'm here. I'm fine. Karen's gone – you destroyed her, remember? And Miller's dead too. They can't hurt me any more."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Jackson's expression harden at the mention of Miller and was relieved when Rachel stepped forward, took her grandfather's arm and began to whisper something. Sam didn't have time for explanations. All his attention was on Dean, who was staring at him glassily.

"Karen's gone," Sam repeated firmly.

Dean frowned. "Burned the hair..."

"That's right. You saved me, Dean, and I'm fine, but you're not. You're sick, and you need to let Dr. Jackson help you."

Dean's gaze turned slowly to Jackson. He frowned slightly. "Doctor?..."

"Yes, he's a doctor," Sam explained patiently. "You can trust him, like you trust Rachel. Now will you just relax and let us help you?"

Dean looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded slightly. All the energy seemed to seep out of him, and he slumped back against the bed. "Feel really bad, Sam," he whispered.

Jackson shot Sam a look that said, "I want an explanation and I want it soon," then turned back to his patient. "We know you feel bad, son," he said briskly, "but you'll feel a lot better shortly, I promise. It'll help me to treat you if you can tell me exactly what's wrong, all right?"

After a pause, Dean whispered hoarsely, "Head… hurts. And… throat." Another pause. "Shoulder and… ribs…" His eyes drifted shut.

"He's been really dizzy, too," Rachel put in, her expression anxious.

Jackson nodded. "All classic symptoms of this particular virus."

Sam said, "He hit his head hard … and I think he may have a few broken ribs. And some of his fingers are broken too."

Jackson looked at Sam searchingly. "I take it he's been in an accident, or a fight?"

Rachel answered, tone firm. "Dean saved Sam's life, Grandpa. We'll explain it all, I promise, but believe me, Dean and Sam are the good guys."

"I'll have to take your word for that," Jackson said dryly. Then he sighed. "All right. I said I trust your judgment, and I meant it." He turned to Dean. "Now, young man, let's take a closer look at you."

Sam watched anxiously as Jackson gave Dean a quick examination, tut-tutting when he shone a light down Dean's throat, taking his time checking out the bruise on the back of Dean's head and the injured shoulder and running his hands carefully across damaged ribs. Dean lay still, but Sam saw his jaw tighten and heard a small gasp of pain escape several times, despite Jackson's gentle hands.

Finally, Jackson popped a thermometer in Dean's mouth and shook his head when he saw the reading. "104.2. Far too high."

He turned to Sam. "Your partner has a severe case of this viral infection, and the symptoms are worse than they could have been, had he been resting. However, I don't see any signs of complications, though we need to get this fever down. I'll set up a drip too, just to make sure he gets enough fluids." He paused. "Now, as for his injuries… that bang on the head won't have helped his headache any, but I don't think he's concussed. We'll keep an eye on him, just in case. He has three broken fingers, but they're clean breaks. He has several severely bruised ribs, but I'm fairly sure none of them are broken. An x-ray would confirm it, of course, but I understand that isn't an option."

As Jackson spoke, he poked around in his medical bag and took out a syringe. Without waiting for a response, he went on, "I'll give him a shot of morphine, and when that's had time to take effect, we'll pop that shoulder back in place." He looked at Sam sternly. After that he'll need rest, and plenty of it."

Sam watched as Jackson spoke reassuringly to Dean and slid the needle into his skin. Dean seemed unaware of what was happening, although he was clearly in a lot of pain and flinched when the needle went in.

Seeing Sam's concern, Jackson said, "It's natural that he's confused and out of it – the fever and weakness will do that, and he must be exhausted with the effort of keeping going against his body's needs. You shouldn't worry."

Easier said than done. The last time he'd seen Dean so weak had been back in Nebraska. Sam blew out a long breath and ran his hands through his hair.

It took only a few minutes for the pain lines on Dean's brow to smooth out as the morphine took effect. It didn't prevent a grunt of pain as Jackson expertly popped the shoulder back into place, but it seemed to take the edge off, and Sam was grateful that he hadn't had to do this in the field.

Jackson immobilized the arm again and then set the broken fingers. By the time he was finished Dean had fallen into an exhausted slumber.

Jackson addressed his granddaughter. "Rachel, would you go to the infirmary and get me the drip stand, some saline bags and a couple of ice packs, please?"

While Jackson had been treating Dean Rachel had sat quietly on the other bed, watching intensely, worrying her lower lip. Her expression betrayed her concern and Sam wondered fleetingly what had happened between her and Dean to dispel the hostility of their previous meeting.

"Sure." Rachel shot a quick glance at Dean and left the room.

"Let's make Mr. … Dean a little more comfortable, shall we?" Jackson said to Sam when they were alone.

Between them, they stripped Dean down to his boxers, and Sam fought back a stab of worry as Dean barely stirred. Dean hated people touching him and had to be in a bad way to allow someone to undress him. It must be the morphine. Still, he couldn't help asking, "Are you sure he's going to be all right?"

Jackson nodded. "I believe he'll be e'll be fine with a lot of rest and some care and attention."

"And you're sure there won't be any complications?"

"One can never be one-hundred-percent sure of anything," Jackson said, and patted Sam's shoulder. "But he seems to be a strong, healthy young man. There's no reason to assume he won't make a full recovery."

"It's just… I read that viruses like this can sometimes affect the heart."

Jackson looked surprised. "The heart? Well, that's true, but only if there's an existing weakness. Are you telling me Dean has a weak heart?"

Sam shook his head. "No. It's just… a few months ago he was electrocuted, and it damaged his heart… but he was healed. I just… I just worry, that's all."

"Electrocuted… and healed? What do you mean by 'healed,' exactly?"

Sam hesitated. "It's a long story."

"Another long story?" Jackson pursed his lips. "Well, I tell you what. Dean needs to rest now, so why don't you fill me in on the story while I'm cleaning up your wrists, eh?"

Sheepishly, Sam looked down at the rings of raw flesh encircling both wrists. He'd been so worried about Dean that he'd forgotten his own injury, but now that Jackson had drawn attention to it, the cuts began to sting.

"Come along to the clinical room. I'll fix you up there."

Sam shook his head. "I don't want to leave Dean. If he wakes up, he'll want to know I'm here."

Jackson looked at him consideringly. "It's none of my business, but it seems to me that you two are more than working partners. Don't worry, I'm not prejudiced—"

"No," Sam said quickly. "It's not like that. We're brothers. We're… very close."

"Ah." Jackson smiled. "That explains it."

Rachel chose that moment to return with the items Jackson had requested.

"Thank you, Rachel," he said, smiling fondly at his granddaughter. "Now, as I can't seem to get Sam to leave the room, would you mind going back one more time and getting me what I need to dress Sam's wrists?"

Rachel glanced at the bloody welts and grimaced. "That does look nasty." She nodded at Jackson. "I'll be right back."

Jackson set up the drip and ice packs, and when Rachel returned, he sat Sam down on a chair and set about cleaning Sam's wrists. While he worked, Sam filled him in on the salient facts, and Rachel added the missing pieces of what she knew of Dean's movements during the day. Apart from shaking his head a few times, Jackson didn't comment until the story ended.

"Well," he said gravely, "I can't say I'm not shocked to hear that Roger Miller was involved in killing all those young men. He was always such a gentle man."

"He was grieving," Sam said, "and he left himself open to Karen's influence. I don't think he was in his right mind."

Jackson nodded, but his features hardened. "Maybe not, but I find it difficult to feel sympathy for a man who I know had a hand in my own grandson's murder."

Sam was silent. There was nothing he could say.

Jackson cleared his throat. "Well, Sam, I think you need to get some rest too, but first of all we should get some food inside you."

Sam's stomach rumbled, as if it had suddenly noticed that he hadn't fed it for over twenty-four hours.

Rachel placed a hand on her grandfather's shoulder. "Why don't you take Sam to the kitchen, fix him a sandwich?" Rachel suggested. "I'll stay and keep an eye on Dean."

Sam was reluctant to leave, but Rachel assured him she would fetch him if Dean so much as moved a muscle, so finally he agreed.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting at a large, wooden table with a plate of roast beef sandwiches before him. He thought he was too tired to eat, but after the first bite realized how famished he was.

Jackson sat down opposite him. "So, Sam, you and your brother – this is what you do? This is your job, finding spirits and monsters to kill?"

Sam nodded and said, around a mouthful of sandwich, "Pretty much."

Jackson looked thoughtful. "Then it's a very lonely and difficult life you lead."

"It can be," Sam agreed. "But… someone has to do it."

"But why you? How did you get into this way of life?"

"Our dad… it's kind of the family business," Sam said shortly. The last thing he wanted was a conversation about their father, so he added, "You don't seem shocked about what we do. Some people – they find it hard to believe that monsters really exist."

Jackson half-smiled. "I've seen a lot of strange, inexplicable things in my time. I've always suspected that there's more out there than we're aware of. Once, I had to patch up a couple of hunters who said Bigfoot had attacked them. Of course, no one believed them, but I couldn't explain their injuries either." He paused. "Does Bigfoot exist?"

Sam shrugged. "I've never seen one, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. The thing that attacked your hunters could have been a wendigo – it could easily be mistaken for Bigfoot. But if it was, they were lucky to get away alive."

"A wendigo," Jackson said thoughtfully. "That sounds interesting. You must tell me more – but not now. You look exhausted, young man, and you've been through quite an ordeal."

It _was_ getting difficult to stay awake, and now that his stomach was full, Sam could feel sleep pulling on him.

Jackson helped him bring in their two duffels from the car and refrained from comment when Sam also brought in the bag of guns from the trunk. The car should be safe in the clinic's backyard, but it didn't pay to take unnecessary risks. Risks could get you killed.

Rachel looked up from her seat beside Dean's bed as Sam entered the room. "Hey. He's still asleep – didn't stir a muscle."

Jackson nodded as he put Dean's duffel down beside his bed. "Sleep is what he needs, and you too, Sam. Don't worry about your brother. I'll check on him in a couple of hours."

Sam thanked them, and they left.

Alone, he sat down on the edge of Dean's bed and stifled a yawn. He wasn't quite ready to crash. There'd be plenty of time for that. For now, he needed to sit in the dark, simply watching the rise and fall of his brother's chest, proof that Dean was still alive, still with him.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

**A/N **The next chapter will be the final one. Thanks for hanging in this far!


	13. Chapter 13

**Against the Clock  
**by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Dean woke little by little, as if dragging himself up through a thick fog. His head pulsed with a dull, persistent throb, uncomfortable but manageable. As he became more aware, vague aches and a few stabbing pains began to make themselves felt in different parts of his body. He cracked open an eye to see Sam looking down at him, brow wrinkled in that familiar frown of concern.

It was his brother's "I'm worried about you" expression rather than his, "The shit's about to hit the fan" expression, so he was not overly concerned that they were in immediate danger.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said softly. "How do you feel?"

How did he feel? Sore and weak, but mostly tired. Bone-weary, in fact, as if he still needed to sleep for a week. But it seemed like he had already been sleeping, so he should be awake, shouldn't he?

He tried to say, "Sam?", and it came out as a weak croak. He realized that his throat felt like coarse sandpaper, and he was opening his mouth again, this time to ask for water, when Sam held a bottle to his lips. Too weary to protest that he could hold the bottle himself, thank you very much, he gratefully took a couple of sips. Even the effort of swallowing was hard work, and he felt his eyelids drooping, despite his efforts to keep them open. He heard Sam say, "It's okay. Go back to sleep. Everything's okay," before sleep claimed him once more.

* * *

The next time he woke, the first thing he saw was Sam. That felt familiar; he had a vague recollection of seeing Sam's face the last time he'd been awake. How long ago had that been?

"Hey," he said.

"Hey back," Sam replied and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands laced. "Nice of you to join me again. I thought you were going to sleep straight through into next week. How do you feel?"

Dean seemed to remember answering that question before. He did a quick internal inventory. "Almost human," he answered truthfully. Compared to the last time he'd been awake, whenever that had been, he was definitely better. The headache was now more a background pain, his body ached less and he was more alert. He looked around the unfamiliar room that was definitely not their usual style of rundown motel and frowned. "Where are we?"

"At Doctor Jackson's clinic. Remember him? Rachel's grandfather. We interviewed him about the murders."

Everything came flooding back: Sam's abduction, the desperate search for answers that would lead him to Sam and the killer, the final confrontation at Miller's cabin — and feeling like he was about to die on his feet at any minute. "Of course I remember him," he said impatiently. "I've had the flu, not a lobotomy. What did you tell him?"

Sam hesitated. "Everything."

Dean frowned. "Like, 'We're hunters and we just discovered that Karen Miller's spirit is the murderer and put her to rest,' everything?"

Sam chewed his lip. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Sam, are you nuts?" He pushed himself up a little, batting away Sam's hand as he tried to help, and finally managed to sit up, trying to ignore the protest from his ribs and the sudden stab of pain that shot through his skull.

"About as nuts as you," Sam retorted, pushing the pillows up behind Dean so he could lean back more comfortably. "Or have you forgotten you told Rachel everything?"

Ouch. "That is so not the same," Dean said firmly. "I needed her to help me find you. I didn't have a choice."

"Neither did I! You were really sick, Dean, and you needed help. I couldn't take you to the hospital, and it wasn't like there were any other options." At Dean's doubtful expression, he went on. "It's okay, Dean. Art understands, and he's fine with it."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Art?"

Sam's features relaxed. "Doctor Jackson. I'm getting to know him pretty well. He's really interested in hearing stories about hunting."

Dean sighed. It was so like Sam to make friends with the doctor. "Okay, fine. We can be out of here soon anyway. Dig out my clothes—"

"No way," Sam said firmly. "Art says you have to stay in bed at least another twenty-four hours."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam. I'm fine."

Sam glared. "You're not fine. You're getting over a really bad bout of the flu, not to mention the dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and cracked ribs. Art says you need to rest, or you'll have a relapse."

Dean humphed. "You're both overreacting."

"Oh, really?" Sam seemed almost angry now. "What would you know — your temp went up to 104.6, and you were totally out of it and delirious for almost a whole day. You realize it's Friday?"

"Friday?" Dean thought back. "But… we arrived here on Monday. That means I've been out of it for three days." Three whole days? "No way. …really?"

"Glad to see you can still count," Sam said dryly. "Like I said, you've been really sick." A shadow crossed his face and he swallowed. "You scared me, Dean. Please. Just stay here a little longer."

Dean saw the remnants of fear in his brother's eyes. He sighed. Much as he wanted to be up and out of this bed, if it would make Sam happy … and since he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was still feeling a little weak …

"Whatever. So long as you know I'm gonna make your life hell and expect you to wait on me hand and foot, bitch."

Sam gave him a tight smile. "I wouldn't expect anything else. How about we start with lunch. Are you hungry?"

At the mention of food, Dean's stomach rumbled, and his mind's eye conjured up an enormous, juicy steak with a pile of onion rings and a mound of fries on the side. "Starving." he said.

Sam stood up. "I'll get you some soup."

"Soup!"

Sam gave him the patented, "Don't argue with me" look. "You're not up to steak and onion rings, Dean. You're getting soup."

How did Sam do that mind-reading thing? "How about a cup of coffee to go with it?" Dean asked hopefully.

Sam shook his head. "Not until your headache's totally gone. Art says caffeine'll just dehydrate you."

"Art says," Dean mimicked grumpily. "Anyway, the headache has gone," he said as convincingly as possible. "I feel fine."

Sam studied him closely. "Uh huh. You're lying. I'll bring you some juice with your soup."

Dean sank back against the pillows after Sam left, a little worried about how weak he felt. That short conversation had sapped all the strength from him, and he felt like going back to sleep. Maybe there was time for a short nap before Sam came back with lunch.

He was about to sink down in bed again when there was a sharp knock and the door opened a crack. Rachel's head peered around it.

"Hi, hotshot," she said cheerfully. "Sam said you were awake. I came to check the miracle for myself. Can I come in?"

Dean hesitated, not sure he wanted her to see him so weak and confined to bed. And if he'd been here three days, he must look like hell, not to mention in desperate need of a shower. On the other hand, she'd probably been around when he was out of it, so it was a bit late to worry about it now. "Sure." With an effort, he pulled himself up a little more, noting that while still sore, his ribs didn't protest the movement too violently.

Rachel crossed the room and perched on the edge of the armchair. "You're looking better."

"Feeling better, thanks."

Rachel studied him and seemed satisfied with what she saw. "You were really out of it for a while," she went on. "We were worried."

"You shouldn't have been," he said lightly. "It takes a lot to bring down a Winchester."

She smiled. "So I noticed."

There was a short, awkward silence until Dean said, "So. I guess you didn't exactly get the story you wanted, huh? At least not one you could use."

Rachel shrugged. "Yeah, you were right — there was no way I pitch my editor the truth. It's okay, though. There'll be other stories." Her face clouded. "I feel bad for Del and Vic's family and friends, though. We know now that Scott was killed by Karen. They'll never know what really happened, will they?"

Dean shook his head. "They wouldn't believe it if you did tell them the truth."

She sighed heavily. "I guess not." She looked down for a moment, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, then gave herself a little shake and looked up. "Well, the important thing is that Karen's gone and you saved Sam." She stood up. "Anyway, I just popped in to see if you were back in the land of the living. I have to go back to work. I'll stop by again tonight, if that's okay."

He brightened at the thought, but said casually, "Sure. I'm not going anywhere – your grandpa has me trapped in this bed. Any chance you could persuade him to let me go?"

Rachel grinned. "Not me. I know better than to question Grandpa's instructions."

She turned to walk away.

"Rachel, wait," Dean said quickly.

She turned back, one eyebrow raised.

"Look." Dean cleared his throat. "I want to thank you for your help. If it hadn't been for you, Sam might not have made it."

She smiled. "Thanks, but the truth is, if it wasn't for _you_ Sam wouldn't have made it. You worked it all out and you saved him. I was just the source of information."

"You were a lot more than that," he said softly, and meant it.

She reddened slightly and looked at him for a moment. Then she smiled again, a slightly mischievous expression in her eyes. "Well, if you really are grateful, how about you take me out to dinner when Grandpa lets you out of this place?"

"Dinner?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Yes, dinner. You must have heard of it. Expensive food, vintage wine, candles…"

"You mean the kind of place where you have to wear a suit and tie?" Dean asked cautiously. Vintage wine and candles he could handle. A suit and tie? Only on a job, and never in his spare time. No way. Not even for a courageous woman who was looking more attractive by the minute.

His horror must have shown on his face, because she laughed. "You know, I'm not much for expensive restaurants either. I'm more a pizza and beer kind of girl."

Dean relaxed. "Finally, you agree with me on something," he teased.

"Hey!" Her lips quirked up. "Are you implying I'm difficult?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, let's see. I tell you to stay outside Miller's place, and you come in anyway. I tell you even more clearly not to come into the cabin no matter what happens, and you --"

"That was different. You were sick and obviously not thinking straight."

He was opening his mouth to defend himself when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Take me out for dinner," she whispered, "and I'll show you how agreeable I can be."

Dean was searching for a smart come back when the door opened and Sam walked in, balancing a tray.

Rachel stood back quickly. "Hi, Sam. I was just leaving." She wrinkled her nose. "Got a piece to write on a feud between two rival manure companies."

Sam grinned. "Good luck with that."

She gave Dean a suggestive grin. "See you later. I'll book that table."

After she left, Sam shot Dean an incredulous look. "I don't believe it. You've been awake for less than an hour, you look like road kill and still you're hitting on the hot chick."

"Hey!" Dean said indignantly. "She was the one hitting on me." Then he grinned smugly and waggled his eyebrows. "She wants me. What can I say?"

Sam let it go and began to fuss, plumping up pillows and helping Dean sit up straighter before putting the tray carefully on his lap. Once done, he sat down on the chair beside the bed, silent, fidgeting with a fold in the comforter.

Dean knew him well enough to sense that he had something on his mind that he wasn't ready to share. He decided not to push and instead looked suspiciously at the soup. The vibrant pea-green color was unappealing, but it smelled good. He took a spoonful, blew on it and swallowed it thankfully. It tasted as good as it smelled, whatever was in it, and he vaguely wondered who had made it.

He gestured in Sam's direction with the spoon. "So, tell me what's been happening. Did the police find Miller?"

Sam looked up and nodded. "They got an anonymous call. I didn't think they'd find him quickly otherwise. Looks like they aren't questioning that his death was a suicide, but now that it's been a few days and it's clear that the pattern of murders has been broken, they're getting suspicious and wondering if Miller's connected. Looks like they're going to look into the cases again, check if he had an alibi around the times of the killings."

"They probably won't find anything."

"No, probably not," Sam agreed, and went back to fingering the comforter.

Dean swallowed some more soup and allowed silence to reign for several minutes before putting the spoon down. "Spill it, Sam," he said firmly.

Sam looked up. "Spill what?"

"Oh, come on. There's something on your tiny mind, and you're gonna burst if you don't get it out. So, spill it."

Sam scrubbed a hand across his eyes. "Dean, you could have been killed back at the cabin."

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "No way. I can handle a seven-pound weakling and a vengeful spirit with one hand tied behind my back."

Sam shook his head, ignoring Dean's attempt at levity. "When you're on your game, yeah. But you were sick, Dean. You could barely stay on your feet, and Miller came close to taking you out." He frowned as Dean opened his mouth to deny it. "It's true, Dean, and you know it."

Dean shrugged. "So it was a tough situation. We've been in worse. What's your point, Sam?"

Sam paused. "I just keep thinking… if I hadn't been so set on proving that Dad was wrong, if I'd been willing to look objectively at the facts right from the start, maybe we'd have worked out what was going on at the beginning. You wouldn't have had to push yourself so hard, make yourself so sick trying to find me."

Dean shook his head. "Sam, that's crap. We'd barely had time to gather all the facts before you went missing."

"We talked about it," Sam persisted. "You said the cause was supernatural, and I wouldn't hear it. We could have worked it out."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No we couldn't. But it doesn't matter anyway, because we're both alive, and that's what counts."

Sam blew out a long breath. "Maybe. I just… I'm sorry, Dean. I let my feelings about Dad get in the way of the case, and I won't let it happen again."

Dean looked at him seriously. "Okay." He paused, reluctant to say the next words but knowing Sam deserved to hear them. "Look, maybe it's not just you who's the problem here. I know I'm too…" He cleared his throat. "You think I blindly follow Dad's orders, no question. I don't do it out of blind faith, Sam. I do it because I know he's good at his job, and he's usually right. But lately… I don't know. I don't understand what he's doing, and I have to trust he's doing the right thing, but maybe… maybe you're right and I should question his orders sometimes, you know? We're on our own now. Things are different."

Sam shot him a surprised look, then nodded. "The important thing is we trust each other and keep watching each other's backs."

"Always, Sam. Batman and Robin, right?"

Sam gave him a half grin. "If you like, but I'm not wearing the costume."

Dean grinned and went back to his soup. He watched Sam surreptitiously through mouthfuls. He knew the discussion about Dad wasn't over, but for now, Sam seemed to be more at peace.

"You know," he said thoughtfully after a while, "talking of seven-pound weaklings, you haven't explained how you let Miller take you. I mean, come on Sam, that's just embarrassing."

Sam looked sheepish. "I was wondering when you'd bring that up. I guess I felt sorry for the guy, and when I met him in the parking lot, I never thought… I let him catch me off-guard."

Dean waved his spoon at Sam, smirking as a few drops of green flew between them and landed splat on Sam's white shirt. "I think it's time you went back to self-defense school."

Sam gave him a withering look and dabbed at the stains with a tissue. He sighed theatrically. "Maybe I should. Still, at least I wasn't the one who dropped my gun. Oops, sorry, I forgot — dropped _both_ guns. That was pretty impressive, Dean."

"I was sick!" Dean exclaimed indignantly. "You're the one who keeps telling me how sick I was. I should get a medal really, what I went through that day…"

Sam held his eyes and his lips twitched. "How about instead of a medal, I go see if I can find you a piece of homemade pie?"

Dean lay back, satisfied. Sam was safe, they were still on the road together and there was pie on the horizon. For now, that was all he needed.

**The End**

**A/N **We finally got there! I want to thank everyone who's had the stamina to wade through this story, and particularly those faithful readers who've read each chapter as it's been posted and sent comments - you guys have been a huge encouragement. Until the next time!


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